


The Princess and The Wolf (a love story without I Love You)

by evilday



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gender Dysphoria, Incest, M/M, Other, Trans, Trans Male Character, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-20
Updated: 2011-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:04:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilday/pseuds/evilday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:The story of two brothers alone. One Hunter and one Psychic, leaving the past unsaid. Saying goodbye to the open road for just a short time, the illusion of gender, and the difference between a Princess and a Wolf (if there is any).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Princess and The Wolf (a love story without I Love You)

Big Bang 2011  
The Princess and The Wolf (a love story without I Love You)  
By Evil Day

Details/Warnings: Established Wincest, AU, Incest, sexual content, graphic content and language, emotional abuse (past and present), violence, trauma, gender identity issues, alcoholism, underlying themes of rape and abuse (no scenes or graphic descriptions)

 

Part 1

The sensation of watching the time pass drew tension, slowly and subliminally, up and around the large, rounded muscles of Sam's shoulders. His ring finger tip-tapped repeatedly on the rim of a chipped beige coffee mug, the contents swirling in the bottom stale and cold. A long plastic second hand ticked militantly around the generic white and black wall clock hanging over the ugly olive plastic table pushed up against the motel wall. His finger wanted to tap in time with the clock, just a few beats off. Dean was due home any minute.

Rubbing the fingers of his left hands over the knobby bone in his knee, Sam hoped he'd be in a better mood by the time he got back.

The deadbolt on the door clacked loudly, and moments later a loud thud sounded as Dean used his foot to push open the door, his hands busy with takeout and a brown paper bag that couldn't be anything else but a six pack.

“Let's eat!” With grins all around, Dean dropped everything off on the table and sat down at the foot of the bed, groaning as he pried off his boots, shaking free tiny clumps of dirt encrusted weed tangles stuck in the soles and laughing as they fell into the carpet. “Cut off my hot water? Have some mud!”

Sam ran a hand through his hair, pulling bangs behind his ears as he sat at the table and waited for Dean to join him. Dean was happy. Things must have gone well. Everything would get better now.

“Smile, Sammy,” Dean crooned, sliding a recycled cardboard container across the plastic tabletop. “I got you your bitch-food, topped with flax seeds and...sprouts and whatever else kind crap goes with that.”

“Thanks.” Digging through his salad with a fork assessing the contents until he was satisfied, Sam breathed out a sigh and started to eat, realizing his hunger at the smell of the food. Munching slowly and carefully on his mouthful, he eyed the cheap Styrofoam container in front of his brother as Dean lifted the lid and took a deep breath.

“Mmmm,” he moaned, blissful in the face of diner food. Sam choked back a gag.

Lifting the burger to his face, Dean shot a half-hearted sneer across the table. “Don't bother with that, Sam. I'm gonna enjoy this. This here,” he pointed, taking a huge mouthful and continuing the conversation around the bite, “this right here is man-food. It's necessary. And,” he nodded, swallowing, “it's good for you.”

Nostrils flaring, Sam poked at his dinner as he exhaled loudly. “You're o- only saying that to annoy me.”

“Maybe,” Dean replied, grinning around the side of his burger. “Is it working?”

Trying to glare up at Dean through his shaggy bangs, he dissolved into a wide smile after a few moments. “Shut up, asshole.”

The sound of dinner that night was companionable silence.

“There's beer in the fridge, Sammy,” Dean called out as he cracked open a can and flopped back on the pile of pillows he'd constructed on his side of the bed. “I know how much you love it.” Chuckling to himself, he flipped through the motel's cable selection. Sam rolled his eyes, chewing his bite methodically. “Aren't you done yet?”

“Almost,” Sam yelled back, scraping the sides of his box and inspecting the leaves that remained. “Two more bites, I think.”

“Great, so, two more hours, then.” With the can of beer perched in the dip in his stomach, Dean cupped it with one hand and settled in, his eyes going back and forth between the television and Sam.

*~*

Fluttering. Clattering. Feathering against his palm. It was difficult for Sam to place the differences in each deck, but he knew them all by feel, by scent and by sight. If he was quiet for very long, and often he was, he could pick them out by the pieces of places and people still stuck to them like invisible spiderwebs, threads of past and present that wove together into a story Sam felt on his cards like extra-sensory Braille. A tiny swirl of air exploded from between his fingers as he shuffled again. With his eyes closed, Dean's static feedback was white noise, a star burning brighter than most.

“Stop it,” he said aloud. “Y-y-you need to be patient.”

“Sorry,” Dean grumbled, backing up and sitting down across from his brother. He slapped his small, palm-sized notepad onto the table and flipped his pen between his fingers, pointedly looking at the ceiling.

Feeling a pull on his right hand, the shuffling stopped and Sam started to place the cards, following the tugging sensation and feeling his gut settle at just five cards. He set the deck aside and walked his fingers over the face down cards, flipping over first one that set off the tingling under his fingernails, in the upper right hand corner of the square.

“Pentacles,” he said, “Five,” and paused, giving Dean time to make a note. Skimming along the surface of his mind was a thought compelled by the revealed card, a picture of a family wasting away. “A trailer park,” he continued, “family of f-f-f-...five. Illness...supernatural ill-ill-illness.” Sam bit his tongue, willing away tightness around his mouth. It was distracting, but eventually it subsided, and he breathed in deeply and turned over another, this time the bottom left. “Swords. Page. The hunt. A challenge in the East.”

“Okay, awesome...tomorrow we'll head out East.” Dean scribbled away on his notepad, his bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration. “What else? I got all that.”

Sam felt a flush traveling across his skin, the blood in his veins thickening sweetly like warm honey, and he traced the back of the card in the lower right hand corner. “The Su-the...The Sun.” Catching the edge beneath his fingernail, he flipped it face up and let the tension slide away from his neck and shoulders. “Everything will go well. We'll be heroes,” he said with a smile to Dean, busy skritch-scratching on his pad.

“Fuck, yeah, we will,” he muttered, smiling beneath his breath.

Closing his eyes, Sam allowed his mind a dip below the surface and saw the sun, solar glow in the sky early in the morning, and beneath it rode Sam and Dean, cutting a dusty slice through the Midwestern earth, blazing headfirst towards the fiery star until they collided at it's zenith. “We'll drive until noon,” he said, frowning and keeping his eyes closed. “There's go-g-g-gonna be a-a-a-a...” Sam put his hand over his mouth and waited a few moments. “A kid. Bright. Yellow. You'll see it. Turn there.”

“Look...for trailer...park...kid,” Dean said, getting it all down on paper. “Okay, got it.”

Allowing his eyes to open and his hands to wander, Sam's fingers wavered over the last two cards. Something felt odd. There was more to tell, but not about the hunt. “New story,” he mumbled, his hand hovering over the fourth card in the square. “Something else in the same place.”

Flipping a page over in his notepad, Dean sat at the ready, pen in hand. “More monsters?” he guessed hopefully.

“Hmmm...” Turning it over, Sam let his fingers trace the zero at the top of the card. “Something...big, Dean. Not a mo-mon...not a hunt. Nothing like that. Something crazy, unexpected...something we're not prepared for.” A general sense of unease settle in the pit of Sam's stomach, and he swallowed back his anxiety and flipped the center card. “More Pentacles. Seven. Whatever happens to us, w-w-w-we...change direction. Go another way.”

“...What do you mean?” Dean's voice was hesitant, uncolored.

“What if it's...I don't know, it...it, it, it might be a fresh start, Dean.”

“What, like, just giving up hunting?”

“No...” Sam shook his head. “I can't really see, though. I'm just guessing.”

“Sam, we go over this all the fucking time.” Irritation clearly setting in, Dean tossed the pad of paper to the tabletop and sat back in his chair. “What would Dad say if we just gave up? Just walk away from everything he built for us?”

Running the tip of his index finger around and around the rectangular card in the center, Sam felt his chest tighten. “I don't know...maybe he'd be happy for us.” The words were empty, and both of them felt the hollow tone of them as they fell in the space between.

Scoffing, Dean shook his head. “Sammy...” With a deep sigh, he reach across the table and swatted at the hair falling into his brother's face. “You're a Winchester. I'm a Winchester. That's what it is, and nothing can stop it. You don't remember him as much as I do, but I'll you what- he'd come back from the dead and string us both up if we ever quit oh him. We're heroes, Sam...you said it yourself. Just like Dad was. We're gonna be heroes again and again, forever. Why would be give that up?”

“I won't, Dean.”

“What would you do, Sammy? Leave your brother behind?”

“No! Okay, I- I-I-...” Exhaling sharply through his nose, Sam tried to placate Dean with a genuine, pleading look. “I wouldn't leave you, Dean. I promise.”

With a piecing gaze, Dead sized his brother up for a few moments before grunting his approval. Wringing his hand beneath the table, Sam tried to feel relieved. He reached out suddenly and grabbed the deck of cards, slipping the card off the very bottom and placing it beneath all the others. “The base of everything,” he said, watching from the corner of his eye as Dean brought the pen back to his notepad. “A third Pentacle. Queen. Who...” With a creased brow Sam shut his eyes and tapped the card thoughtfully, testing the waters in his mind. “A mother. That's all...I can't tell who she is,” he admitted, looking up at Dean with an open expression.

“Who knows?” Dean shrugged shortly, still apparently miffed about their disagreement.

“H-h-h-he...hey....Dean...I'm sorry.”

Dean took his time writing down the information. “Save it, Sam,” he ground out. “Doesn't matter.”

Sam felt his heart wilt at the sound. “What do you wa-want m-m-me to do?” he asked earnestly.

Sitting back slowly in the small, uncomfortable chair, Dean sat in silence, watching Sam. Finally he rubbed the back of his head, short bristles scratching audibly against his hand. “I want you to figure this shit out so I don't have to keep telling you. We aren't normal. We never will be. Look at you, Sam!” He waved at Sam across the table, gesturing exaggeratedly. “You're a fucking psychic! It's awesome for the job, don't get me wrong, but with your weird food, and the books and the goddamn energy crap...who's gonna want to deal with that shit, huh?”

“N-n-no one, I know, Dean, I don't want-”

“Okay, then, so don't even bother dragging this shit up anymore. If you wanna leave, there's the door.” Getting up suddenly, Dean threw back the last of his fourth can and crushed it in his hand, tossing it idly into the trash on the way to the bed. Leaving Sam to stew in his juices, he quickly strode off to the bathroom to change into a stained white t-shirt and boxers, crawling under the floral bedspread and switching off the light with an outstretched arm.

Sam sat still and silent at the table, the cards before him faintly illuminated by the starlight filtering through the dusty shades. He'd messed it up again. Rubbing his palms in repetitive circles over his knees, he resolved to do whatever it took to make everything better again.

*~*

Sam gave him 20 silent minutes before attempting to crawl beneath the covers, sliding in soundlessly and settling on his side. His arm itched to reach out but he held it against his stomach and watched the erratic rise and fall of Dean's back, his face pressed into his pillow. He wasn't asleep.

Taking a chance, Sam let his fingers move across the warm sheets, tentatively touching Dean at the base of his neck, moving up brush through his short hair.

“I'm sorry.”

Tuning his head so just one of his eyes was peering out from the pillow, Dean looked at Sam in the dark. “Hmph, he said, non-committal.

“I didn't mean it.”

Dean watched Sam speak, settling his head to the side, his eyes two shining black stones in the dark.

“We'll st-st-st-sta....we'll stay together, right?”

Exhaling through his nose, Dean reached up and grabbed Sam lightly by the hair at the nape of his neck. “Yeah.” He pulled him forward towards his own face, stopping just before they met in the middle to laugh into his pillow.

“...What?”

“Fuck...don't look at me like that. Not right now, anyway.” Flipping over onto his back, Dean crossed his arms behind his head casually.

“Like how?”

“Like you're 10 fucking years old, that's how! Christ,” he moaned, rubbing his face with the heel of his palm, “like I'm your Mom or something.”

It was mostly teasing, Sam sensed, and he shifted on the bed, crawling over Dean and resting on his knees and elbows. Pressing his nose into Dean's neck, he whispered, “No.” His lips drew into a smile on the skin, and he bit lightly. “My brother.”

The reaction was instantaneous. Groaning softly in the back of his throat, the entire length of Dean's body curled to fit against Sam's, and he wrapped both hands around Sam's shoulders, forcing him closer. The easy familiarity of Dean's movements only stoked Sam's fire further, sensing his brother's appreciation, his approval. It was what Dean wanted, so then, it was what Sam wanted more.

Finally, Sam came up and took his first kiss of the night from Dean, licking their tongues together and searching deeply, the pressure in his lungs building. The moment was escalating quickly tonight. He felt hands on his lower back snaking up his shirt, and he broke the kiss and hissed, grinding his hips against Dean's and watching for any sign of protest. His brother only kicked his own hips up harder.

Propping himself up on one arm, Sam's other hand reached out to brush the bangs back from Dean's eyes, their eyes meeting momentarily. “Do you remember,” he breathed, a bit shakily,” when I-I-...was ten?”

“Mm-hm.” The reply was short, hurried. Dean was on edge and in a rush, and Sam kissed him again, slowly this time and painstakingly attentive.

“Did you want me then, too?” he asked against Dean's mouth.

A low, throaty laugh drew from the lowest point in Dean's throat, and he slowed his pace to match his brothers. “Holy shit, you are sick,” he chuckled. “Maybe. You were such a good little brother,” he returned with a deviant grin, watching his words wash over Sam. “I might have thought about it,” he said, pausing between his words to pull of Sam's t-shirt, “once or twice. Why?” he ground out, popping open the top button of his jeans and jamming a hand hastily past the zipper while his other hand skated merrily across Sam's exposed skin, his mouth sucking on his brother's bottom lip. “Is that what you wanted? For me to take advantage of you? Did you want me to take you somewhere Dad couldn't find us, make you suck me off?”

“F-f-fuck...” Sam whispered, his chest heaving, resting his forehead against Dean's and pausing to catch his breath. “I can't wait, Dean, we go-gotta...we gotta now, kay?”

The response Dean gave was to shove his jeans down to his knees, and Sam sat up and pulled them the rest of the way off, tossing them blindly over the side of the bed before yanking his own pair down halfway. Waving his hand in the air beside the bed until his fingers scraped the edge of the nightstand, he fumbled across the top until he found the scattered pile of condoms he kept on hand, much to Dean's continued amusement. Making short work of getting one on, he crawled back up the length of Dean's body and kissed him deliberately, taking his time until Dean punched him in the arm and pushed him up.

“Jesus Christ, can you please stop feeling your feelings and start fucking already?”

“Okay, okay,” he huffed, shifting Dean's legs with his hands and lifting him until his knees hooked over Sam's shoulder's. Easing into his brother slowly, he felt Dean back arching in his hands, the strong muscles contracting and rippling like waves beneath the surface of his skin. He moved his hands to the square, sleek bones of Dean's hips and gripped tight, his own canting forward as he bottomed out like a reflex. He knew that if he held still any longer Dean might start to get irritated, so he leaned forward a bit and thrust his weight into his brother at a steady, patient pace.

“Fuck,” Dean breathed, and then “fuck!”, a little louder this time, pulling with his legs at his brother's shoulders and resting back on his elbows, letting his head fall back against his pillow when he couldn't hold it up any longer to watch what little he could see in the dark room. “Shit.” All his words were lost in an exhale, caught in his breath half-formed. “Higher, higher, yeah....fuck, like that.”

Obliging, Sam hoisted Dean's hips a bit higher, fucking hard but evenly, paced like a stopwatch. With Dean's weight held up mostly on his shoulders, he put on hand on his brother's lower back to steady him and ran his hand down the smooth arc of his lightly muscled stomach, being careful to stop at the edge of Dean's t-shirt, rucked up past his belly button, and then reaching for it and pulling it back down over his abdomen. If Dean noticed, he didn't say anything.

“Come on, Sam...” Using his leverage Dean rocked into Sam's relentless motion, humming with dissatisfaction. “I know you wanna,” he murmured, mostly aloud, but the words were broken, exasperated fragments. “I know you wanna cum inside me, wanna shoot inside your brother, fucking do it...fucking do it, little brother.”

Sam couldn't do anything but obey, and Dean knew it, Sam could taste Dean's venom in the air, the way he always knew what to say, what to do, how to be so that Sam would always follow. With a snapped sounding breath he gripped his fingertips into the hollow, fleshy skin of Dean's hips and dug in deep, wringing himself dry before Dean and giving him everything he would take and anything else he wanted. Dean shut his mouth, only to open it again moments later, baring white teeth in the dark like a cornered animal as he came, riding out his orgasm.

It took a few moments to untangle themselves, but soon Dean was back on his stomach and drifting off to sleep, leaving Sam to lie on his back, watching the lights of the occasional passing car as they shot across the ceiling. It wasn't often that a reading had him stumped, and his mind held the images of the cards in his mind ceaselessly, confronting him with his own unknowable future.

*~*

He hit the pavement earlier than usual, eager to leave town. With his feet propelling him forward, Sam ran, his lungs huffing at a steady, deep pace. Briefly he eyed his surroundings, taking in the pink house to the left, the brick one with the little lap dog in the window, the blue sedan parked on the side of the road, the now-familiar dip and rise in the pavement. All of it too practiced, too...habitual. He's become acquainted with this town. It was time to move on.

Dean emerged from beneath the twisted pile of cheap bedlinen just as Sam was kicking off his shoes by the door, leaving them there and walking in his socks into the kitchen and shuffling through an overflowing cabinet.

“Oh, shit, is it blender time already? Fuck this,” Dean mumbled, diving under the pillow.

Sam paused. “Should I wa-...wait?”

Tossing the pillow aside, Dean sighed and scratched his stomach. “No, go ahead. I'm taking a shower.”

“Do you want me to make you something?”

Dean paused, turning a critical eye to the small travel blender and series of packaged powders Sam had laid out on the little tile counter space. “Uh...no, I'm good. I'll just grab something on the way.”

You'll get sick, Sam thought. He kept it to himself, and started measuring.

*~*

The sunlight danced across the shining black hide of the Impala as she flew down the highway, pushing 90 through a sparse stretch of dusty earth, thirsty under the approach of midday. Snacking on a bag of chips, Dean punched buttons on the radio, trying to find a local station between cities.

“Hey, Dean.” Sam pointed at the sign hurdling past.

“Sunset Avenue, next exit,” he read aloud. “Found it.”

Sunset Avenue turned out to be the main street in a sparsely populated town that had little more than a few square miles devoted to commerce. No big name diners, dimly lit bars, a tiny beauty salon and medium chain grocers lined the streets, punctuated by retirement homes, apartment complexes, and little intermittent pockets of housing.

“Small town,” Dean mused, keeping to the road. “What do you think?”

“I think,” he began, creasing his brow in thought, “we...p-p-pr-probably shouldn't stay long.”

“Long enough to find this family,” Dean said, throwing a confident smile at Sam. “Dude, are you excited? A new hunt!”

“We just finished a- a hunt,” he replied, but he knew his eyes gave him away. Dean was so happy, and it was difficult not be infected by it.

“Yeah, but this is a new hunt. Oh, shit, there it is!” Dean swerved into the right hand lane, turning into a driveway with a large, weather-bleached sign. Sunset Avenue Community. “Jesus, Sammy, you should have warned me that the kid was creepy.”

Sam locked eyes with a blonde, tan-skinned girl, no older than six. She stared at the car as it passed by, squinting into the sunlight as she peered into the cab. Her hair was tied in a high, messy ponytail with strands falling to the sides of her cheeks, a faded purple dress 2 sizes too small hanging down to her knees. Barefoot, her feet were a few shades darker than her skin.

“If I see a cornfield, we're out of here.”

“Pull over.”

“What, here? I think this is technically someone's lawn.”

Sam nodded, watching the girl as she watched him back. “Wait for me, okay?”

“Whatever,” Dean shrugged, reaching for his chips.

Sam approached the child easily, stopping a few feet away. She didn't look frightened or nervous, but there was a weariness to her that Sam felt rolling around her in waves. She was tired, and tired of being tired.

“I...I-I'm Sam,” he said, closing his mouth purposefully to give her a chance to speak. When she didn't respond, he continued. “That's my brother Dean, in the ca-c-c-car. We heard you were sick, and we wanted to help.”

“You can't help,” she replied, nearly shocking Sam at the sound. He almost hadn't expected her to say anything at all.

“How come?”

“'Cause the doctor already said nothin's wrong.”

“Oh,” he replied, thinking carefully. “Well, I'm not a-a-a-a doc-doctor. And we, Dean and I, we think y-y-...you're telling the truth.”

She said nothing at that, but her expression changed slightly, a softening of the features around her eyes. Sam knew she believed him.

“What's your name?”

“...Melissa.”

“Melissa...do you think Dean a-and- and I could talk to your parents?”

Frowning at their car, Melissa nodded. Sam motioned to his brother, waving him over to follow her through the community.

It really wasn't as bad as a trailer park sounded. The homes were small and short, sky blue with room for grass and gardens and as many green growing things as you might want. The packed dirt formed a path around the properties, winding and weaving until Melissa led them to the front of a sad looking trailer, the paint long since faded to a warped white. No grass covered the area by the doorstep and no plants of any kind emerged from the ground, despite the late springtime sun. Cloudy looking windows hid the world from the inside, and the dark drapes drawn tightly took care of any light that might try and penetrate the gloom. A single folded lawn chair leaned against the side. Sam's chest shriveled at the sight and the sensation of just seeing the home. He had no desire to walk inside.

Melissa opened her mouth and yelled, “Momma!” about as loud as she could, startling Sam from his preoccupation. Before long, a hand drew back the drapes and a face appeared in the window, ghostly and distorted though the smudged windowpane.

“Who's that?” asked Dean.

The door opened, creaking on it's hinges, and a short, blond woman of about forty stepped into the doorway, her hands nervously wringing a dishtowel. The silver flecks in her hair shone under the sun, the down-turned corners of her mouth twisting as she peered down at the two of them. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, swaying her thin skirt, she gave Dean and Sam a perfuctory nod.

“Can I help you boys with something?”

Sam opened his mouth to speak but was struck silent, the pain and aching fatigue radiating off of her twice as strong as her daughters and laced with a bitter tasting poison that shut Sam's mouth so fast it was almost reflexive.

I've ruined everything.

I'll never get out of here.

We never have enough money, enough food.

I wasted my life.

Broadcasting like a lone beacon in the night, the woman's sorrow overwhelmed Sam, and he motioned for Dean to begin. His brother picked up the slack immediately, and Sam knew instinctively that Dean understood.

“Well, Ma'am, actually, we were hoping we could help you.”

At that, her eyes hardened, and she shook her head. “I'm sorry, but we're not interested in what you're selling. Melissa, get in the house, you hear?”

Sam wasn't sure what was worse, being near the woman, or letting her go.

“No wait, Ma'am, it-it-it's n-n-n-not what you think. J-ju-just stay, for a minute. Listen to us, and then you ca-..can-can go. We'll go, I promise.”

Melissa's mother turned her attention to Sam and her mouth pursed just slightly at his delivery. Without a word to affirm or refuse, she stood still and silent, the light spring breeze tugging at the loose strands in her low ponytail.

“You know something's wrong, but you can't put your finger on what, am I right?” Dean continued, his tone confident but lacking it's normally cocky quality. “Your family is sick, and you can't figure out what it is.”

“Your doctors,” Sam offered, “they c-c-c-ouldn't find anyth...anything wr-wrong. No one believes you.”

“We're not here to judge you, all right? We only want to help. If you tell us what's going on, we promise we'll listen. Really listen.”

Darting her eyes back and forth between the two brothers, the woman brow furrowed momentarily, but other than that she gave no sign that had even heard them.

“Here.” Dean pulled his notepad and pen out of the inner pocket of their father's old jacket, worn with pride even in the Midwestern afternoon, and jotted down his cell number. “Give us a ring if you want some help. We don't want anything from you. So just take this, and we'll get out of your hair.”

She took the number, to Sam's slight surprise, and disappeared into her home without another word.

“Chatty bitch, ain't she?” Dean muttered under his breath as soon as they were out of earshot. “What do you think, huh? She gonna call?”

“She has to.” Sam ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the energy she'd left on him. “Whatever's going on here...it's bad. It's...it hur-h-...hurts, right here,” he said, rubbing his hand over his chest.

Standing on opposite sides of the Impala, Dean looked at Sam, at his hand, and just watched him quietly for a few moments. Turning away, he slid into the driver's seat and slammed the door behind him, pasting on a cheery grin. “Who's hungry?”

*~*

The diner was two tables shy of empty and staffed with a single waitress, a plump, red-haired woman too sweet and far too happy for the job.

“Hey, there!” she exclaimed, waving them in from behind the counter. Looking them both up and down, she grabbed two menus from behind the register and met them in the walkway. “Well, aren't y'all just so young and cute! My name's Marjorie, You two just have a seat in that booth over there and have a look at the menu, all right?”

“Thank you, Marjorie,” Dean replied, his emphasis on the name. Sam stifled a laugh as he slid into the booth opposite his brother. “Mar-jo-rie...that's where we've landed, Sammy. In a town where people name their children Marjorie.”

With a quiet smile, Sam surveyed the menu passively, mentally resigning himself to the garden salad he knew he would end up with. “What are you getting?”

“It's Salisbury steak day for me. Let me give Marjorie the old Winchester charm and see if she can't rustle up something for your delicate tastes.” Flashing Sam a private smile, he lifted his hand and waved over their waitress.

“All right, then, you two ready to order?” With a ruby red smile wider than the sunny sky, she flipped through her notebook and pulled a pen from the front of her apron.

“We are, Marjorie.” He handed her back the menus. “I would love the Salisbury steak special, and can you maybe get some extra gravy on those mashed potatoes?”

“Oh, of course I can, sweetie! You just sit back and lemme get that ready for you. And what about you, honey, what'll you have?”

“W-...Well-”

“See, the thing is, Marjorie, Ma'am, he's got some...dietary restrictions, you know? Some allergies.”

“Oh, what a shame!” Marjorie, tilting her head to the side to get a better look at Sam, gave him a pitying look. “I'll bet there's something we can fix for you. What is it you can't have?”

“He needs something with no meat, no dairy, no wheat and no sugar.” Marjorie's face scrunched up a bit at the list, which Dean was expecting, and before she could respond he spoke again. “I know, it sounds impossible, right? But maybe you guys have some fruit or vegetables back there? It doesn't have to be complicated.”

“Oh, you know what?” she exclaimed, her round face brightening again. “We do have a new breakfast special, a fruit platter and oatmeal on the side. How does that sound, sugar?”

“That is perfect, Marjorie, that is so helpful,” he delivered with a sweet smile. “He'll only have water, but I could really go for a coke.”

“All right, well, I'm gonna get back to the kitchen and explain this, so just two just sit tight and I'll be right back with your drinks.”

“What did I say, huh?” Looking perfectly pleased with himself, Dean sat back against the cushioned booth and crossed his arms behind his head. “You happy?”

“Yeah.” Sam relaxed as well, the stress of ordering for himself dealt with. “Thanks.”

“Yep,” Dean replied easily, already distracted and bouncing his fork by the prongs on his napkin. “So, what do think about this family? Think we got a case?”

The thought of their visit with Melissa and her mother passed over Sam's mind like the shadow of a cloud crossing the earth on a sunny day. “...I do-...do-don't...something is wrong there, Dean. I don't normally f-f-f-feel that much emotion from anyone. They're n-n-not just dep-depressed or, or sick. It's a buildup of-of-of ne-negative energy. It has to be cleared.”

“Well, that sounds more like a story where you'll end up being the hero.” Said with a teasing grin, Dean thanked Marjorie again as she dropped off the drinks. The food arrived minutes later, and the conversation died down to a companionable silence.

Dean, as Sam had guessed, had inhaled his food in chunks, too hungry to bother with anything else but swallowing. Now he sat still and sated, leaning forward on the table with his hands, poking at the last few bites of potatoes and nursing his third refill. His attention was mostly directed at Sam, however, and as Sam went about his familiar eating ritual he caught Dean's eyes on him silently too many times to be a coincidence.

“...What?” he finally asked, swallowing a small piece of pineapple.

“Nothing. Just watching you eat. It's weird.”

Spearing a strawberry slice, Sam replied before popping it into his mouth. “I've been eating like this for-for years.”

“No, I know. It's just fascinating. You have all these patterns and stuff and it's kind of crazy to watch.”

Cringing inwardly, Sam finished chewing his bite and swallowed. “Am I taking too long?” he asked apologetically.

“Nope.” Dean merrily took long pulls of soda through his straw. “The longer we sit here, the more free refills I get to drink.”

“The more you'll ha-h-have to, have to pee on the road,” Sam joked quietly.

“Ha, ha...yeah, you're probably right. But take as long as you want, cause we gotta find a motel and that's going to take fucking forever.”

Dean was happy. Sam was elated. All he had to do was keep doing what he was doing, and everything would stay this way. Maybe forever this time.

*~*

They ended up in the backseat of the Impala before they managed to even leave the parking lot of the diner. Sam fucked up into Dean like he knew Dean had wanted him to in the bathroom, but Sam couldn't stomach the idea of doing anything with Marjorie's voice gaily floating around in the background. Gripping Sam's shoulders, his blunt nails digging into the skin on the bone, Dean rode his brother hard, his spine curving concave until he couldn't push Sam in any farther. Sam's brown bangs fell messily into his eyes, shuttering the sight of Dean dominating him completely, pushing him down into the backseat forcefully and using him for his own pleasure. Just the thought sent Sam tumbling, letting loose a guttural moan as he came, his older brother's ever-present cocky smile like a phantom in his mind, reassuring him.

*~*

“Here we go,” Dean said, easing the wheel to the right and steeping the Impala into the motel parking lot. “Weekly rates. Let's just give this one a shot, all right?”

Sam's eyes surveyed the property, his rapt focus on the roof. “Okay.”

Sauntering casually into the office, Dean rested his elbows on the counter, nodding to the disinterested Asian motel clerk.

“Hey, there.”

The man barely gave him a nod, shaking the newspaper in his hands a bit to straighten in. “Can I help you?”

“Well, here's the thing. I'm looking to rent a room. I can put down cash, right now.” At that, the elderly man turned his full attention on Dean, sizing him up for a few moments. “How long?”

“Not sure. Could be awhile. Here's the thing: I will pay you up front for one full week. You gotta do me a favor though.” Dean knew he could sell anything, and this man wouldn't be any different.

Setting aside the newspaper, the clerk caught a glimpse of Dean's money clip, the numbers on the bills facing outward. “What kind of favor?” he asked suspiciously, keeping his eyes on the money.

*~*

“What exactly is he looking for?” The motel clerk, who Dean had now learned was named Ron, folded his arms over his chest, acting put out. “I run a clean business here.” His short stature lessened the effect.

“I'm sure you do, Ron, if you don't mind me calling you that,” Dean assured, waving away any irritation. Sam glanced over at Dean for confirmation, perched as he was on a chair with his head halfway inside of a cabinet. “My brother's he's, uh...he's allergic to a lot of things. Just making sure he won't have a reaction. No problems, really...Sammy? You about finished?” he called out.

Sam could hear in his voice that he was getting tired of baby-sitting. “It's clean.”

“I told you!” Ron sneered, throwing up his hands. “Clean!”

“Kay, Sammy, I'm going to office.” The sound of Dean's voice, mixed with the annoyed tone of Ron's, slowly faded as the door shut, leaving Sam alone in their new room.

This motel's particular theme was pleasant, light blue and white striped wallpaper complimenting the ocean colored bedlinen and white ceramic lamps. A soft, muted flow of energy moved evenly throughout the space. Sam smiled warmly, and began zipping open his twin duffel bags that sat waiting at the foot of the bed. It wasn't often he moved to a new place that didn't need at least some form of clearing.

Books and decks stayed in the bags, but clothes, toiletries, and food were filed away in various places throughout the room. Dean returned with his own things just as Sam was finishing, dragging his feet through the doorway and tossing his solitary bag on the floor.

“Oh, my god. Ron sucked me dry like a fucking ex-wife,” he muttered, slamming the door behind him. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, checking the display. “Still haven't heard from Ms. Trailer...you wanna go out? Get a drink? Or watch me get one?” he laughed, following Sam into the kitchenette. “Oh, shit, never mind, we're organizing, aren't we?”

“No, I'm done.” Shutting the cabinet, Sam went back to the bed and slid open a drawer, pulling out a clean shirt. “I'll change.”

“Me, too. Bathroom's mine.” Grabbing his bag, Dean disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door.

*~*

The sour, acridly perfumed scent of the bar was overwhelming. Sam hunched over the table, he and his brother tucked away in a shadowy corner of the dusky bar, and stirred his ice water with his straw, half-listening to Dean and keeping an eye on the crowd up front. This establishment was apparently a local favorite, and patrons called each other by name noisily, sweating and laughing and drinking away the memory of the day. Dean was content with his beer, swirling the last of the liquid in the bottom of his second bottle, the easy familiarity in his voice loosening even further.

Relax, Sammy. You want a drink?” he chided, his teasing still in the realm of lighthearted fun. Sam crinkled his nose, giving no further reply, inciting another loud belly laugh from Dean. Something drifted into his line of sight and his eyes widened, the bottle pausing in it's circular motion. “Holy shit, Sam, look who's coming.”

It was too late to turn, and to Sam's left appeared a graying, slim man with a height that would rival even Sam's and a Stetson to top it off. With a hardened stare he took in Dean, Sam, and Dean again, before cracking open a wide yellow smile with silver scattered throughout.

“Boy, you two wouldn't happen to be Winchesters would ya?”

“Mr. Harley Stanton, sir,” Dean nodded, standing up to shake the man's hand. “It's been years.” Sam jumped up and took hold of his firm handshake, moving to stand beside his brother. “You got a case around here?” Dean fished casually, catching Sam's eye.

“Naw, just passing through. I caught the sight of this one here,” he said, motioning to Sam, “and I couldn't help but think I'd seen him before. For the life a' me I can't remember your names. You're a...Sam, ain't ya?”

“Yeah, that's Sammy, and I'm Dean. We here working a job, just getting started.”

“Dean, huh?” The old hunter gave Dean a once over, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. “Was there just the two of you? I thought I remembered another one. 'Course I met a lot a' hunters in my time,” he admitted, his broad smile spreading to Sam.

“No, sir, it's just Sam and me. And our dad, of course, but I'm sure you heard about him.”

“That I did, and I'm truly sorry for you boys. And now I hear you two are huntin'! Boy I can't believe it!” he said, slapping Sam on the should and laughing out loud, the murky sound of his chest wheezing in the stale air. You can't be older n' seventeen, boy! How did you two even get in here?” he exclaimed, ruffling Sam's hair. Surprised, Sam sought out Dean, who shook his head nearly imperceptibly. “It might have been awhile, but it ain't been that long. You two keeping the old family business alive, eh? Well, that sounds about right. I can't imagine any kid raised by John'd have a fair shake at getting' out, anyway. Your Daddy was a strong man and a top notch hunter, but this ain't the life for children.”

Dean was two seconds from responding when both he and Sam heard the tell-tale guitar riff ringtone of his cell, and he took the phone out of his pocket and checked the display.

“Well, I'll leave you boys to your work,” Harley said, patting both Dean and Sam on the shoulders amiably. “You two take care of yourselves, now, all right?”

“Will do, sir,” Dean replied, clipped and with a curt nod. Sam smiled warmly for the both of them.

“Hello?” Dean said, loud enough to cut through the constant din in the background, “yeah, that's us. You what? Oh...” With a curled lip he shoved the phone into Sam's chest, saying, “She wants to talk to the tall one.”

“He-hello?” Sam answered hesitantly.

A loud, weary sigh erupted from the speaker. “I've been thinking about you two all day. Don't know why or how, but...maybe you can help us.”

“Th-th...that's all we want. Just l-l-let us, let us try.”

“You have to come tonight. My husband just left, he works the graveyard.”

“We'll come now. Thank you,” he added, listening until the soft click came moments later.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to look at his brother. “It's now or never.”

*~*

The bar was only a few miles from the trailer park, and Dean gunned the Impala like they were chasing the stars along the highway instead of cruising side streets, abnormally quiet. It wasn't hard to guess what had set him off; Sam could taste Dean's irritation in the air like a bitter draft. The old hunter had touched on a few of Dean's open nerves in a sparse expanse of a few minutes. He knew better than to try and get Dean to open up.

“I wonder if this woman is the mother I saw.”

Dean shifted gears, remaining hotly silent. At a glance, Sam could see the bones in his jaw straining, smooth skin pulled taught with tension. He decided to let him be for now, focusing his attention on the family, and the mystery of the mother.

The woman answered the door on the second knock, ushering them inside. The tiny abode was shadier than the bar they'd just left, and despite the clean, barren look to the place it felt clogged somehow, thick as mud to move through as Sam walked into the little kitchen area. The only light came from a single ceiling light hidden behind a plastic cover coated with a dusty film. Dean stayed close behind, shadowing his brother in a time honored protection ritual. This job was all about Sam's area of expertise, but Dean was still there, hovering, waiting, watching everything. Ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

The woman must have noticed him, but she didn't make a mention of it if she did. All of her bone-dry, quietly desperate attention was on Sam. Motioning for him to sit, she pulled out her own wooden chair and sat down across from him, keeping her thin, veined hands on the flaking earth-toned tabletop.

“You're welcome to sit down...sorry, what was your name again?”

“It's Dean.” Sam shuddered at the sound. He didn't sound angry, and it wasn't anything that the woman would have picked up on, but to Sam it sounded like sandpaper grating across the skin of his neck. “And thank you, but no.” Drawing himself up to his full height, he stayed solid and sure at Sam's left shoulder.

“Dean's going to watch, make sure we all st-s-stay, stay safe. Is it all right?” Sam asked genuinely.

Melissa's mother nodded passively. There ain't nothin' either one of you can do to help me.

“Why d-do you think that?” Exhaling slowly, Sam straightened his spine, allowing his state of awareness to shift slightly, letting a little bit more in with each breath.

Taken aback, the woman blinked rapidly. “What are you...how do you...”

Putting his left hand on the table face down, Sam fixed his attention earnestly on her rapidly deteriorating trust. “The same way we knew ho-...h-how to f-f-find you. Don't panic,” he assured her, speaking slowly. “I'm going to-...to try and help.”

Looking at Dean, to Sam's outstretched hand, and back to Dean again. “How?”

“He's gonna check you for any signs of...activity,” Dean replied cooly, backing up a few steps and leaning back against the kitchen wall, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “The paranormal kind.”

“What...like a ghost? You honestly think that's what's going on?” she said, taken aback. Pressing her mouth together in a thin, aged line, she hesitated. “I don't know.”

“Yes, you do,” Dean fired back, quietly but impatiently, like he was arguing with a child. “Maybe you don't know you know, but in the back of your mind there's something that you just can't explain away. So quit wasting time and tell us what you know.”

“Dean,” Sam admonished, but the woman stopped him from going any further.

“No,” she whispered, waving a hand at Dean while pressing at the bones of her nose with the other, fighting back tears. “I know it. I thought this time, this time we'd finally get free.”

“Free from what?” Now Dean sounded interested, and Sam could feel the last vestiges of his irritation slipping away.

“From...God help me, I can't even describe it.” Pulling her loose, graying blonde hair behind her back, she wrung her hands together, tugging at the collar of her nightgown. Nervously fidgeting, straightening fabric, she looked everywhere but Sam's face. “There's a darkness hanging over my family and we can't seem to shake it. We've moved three times now, and nothing...nothing can stop it. I've tried going to priests... and doctors, trying to make some sense of this. Nothing's worked.” Chuckling bitterly under her breath, the woman shook her head listlessly. “Doctors say blood comes back fine. Priest does a blessing on the house and says that's the best he can do.” She leaned forward now, catching Sam's eyes with her own exhausted, haunted expression. “It ain't the house, can't be,” she said almost soundlessly, pleading with Sam.

“Here,” he said, turning his hand over. “Give m-me your hand.”

Her fingers hesitantly touched his palm, and Sam curled his own over her slightly. “Tamara.” He blinked. “Is that your name?”

“Yes,” she affirmed, awestruck.

“Tamara...I-I-I, I'm going to- to look. Is that okay?”

Nodding, her grip become more firm in his own. “Go ahead.”

Diving beneath the surface of someone else wasn't anything like plumbing his own depths. If the person was nervous (and they always were, Sam had come to discover), if they were afraid, or if they were ashamed, even if the problem wasn't their fault, they would unconsciously clamp down on the flow of energy circulating throughout their body, making Sam's job even harder. Tamara unconsciously trusted Sam, allowing him easy access to her meridians.

“Oh,” he murmured, “okay. Problem...”

“What?” Dean piped up, taking a step forward. Tamara shifted anxiously.

“No, Dean, i-it...it-it-it's not...I don't think it's su-supernatural.”

“It's not?” Dean didn't sound thrilled.

“Well,” he continued, “It is, but...” Trailing off in thought, Sam closed his eyes, mentally prodding further. “It's...no-n-not something y-y-you can, can hunt.”

“Bummer,” Dean replied, sighing defeatedly. Tamara shook his head in disbelief.

“You hunt these...sort of things?”

“Family business.” Dean voice held an air if finality, his nod curt.

“Oh...well, what about us, then? If it isn't...well, what is it?”

“This, this thing,” Sam said, “you-you're tired no matter how, how much you sleep. Sick, all th-th-the time, fever, y-you, uh...you bruise easy. De-depressed...does that sound right?”

“Yes, oh my god.” Tamara put her free hand over her mouth. “That's how it started.”

“How long?” Dean pressed.

“Oh, that...it'll be seven years next month.” Shivering, she pulled at the sleeve of her nightgown again.

“Are you cold?” Tamara met Dean's inquisitive expression. “It's warm out tonight,” he explained.

“She's always cold,” Sam cut in. “Tamara, when did you n-n-notice it was spreading?”

“Just before we packed up the first time,” she said, nodding her head in memory. “'Bout two years back.”

“Your husband f-f-...first? And then Melissa?”

“Yes, that's how I remember it. Why? Are they gonna be all right? Is there something you can do to protect them?” As she spoke her voice grew with intensity, the need and desperation clouding the sound. “You haven't even told me what it is!”

“It...it-it's you, Tamara. I'm sorry,” Sam hastily added, meeting her blank stare head on. “But you're the source.”

Dean, sensing Tamara's growing confusion and preparing for possible hostility, moved to stand directly behind Sam.

“What a-...what are you-...that's impossible!” she cried out, yanking back her hand from Sam's. He let her go easily, expecting it. “Why would I- why, or how could I do such a thing? Do you think I like feeling this way? I'm going out my mind with the pain! And now Melissa, she...” Stifling a sob, with the back of her hand, she scrunched up her eyes tightly, forcing back tears. “I feel like I'm watching her fade away.” Her voice reduced to little more than a whisper, Tamara, finally regained enough composure to match eyes with Sam. “How can you even say I'm responsible?”

“It's not your fault.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, Sam dislodged a large deck of cards. “I can tell...y-you anything you wa-w-want to you know, but I,” he sighed, shuffling absent-mindedly, his eyes drifting up towards the ceiling. Maintaining his silence, he kept his mouth closed until he was done shuffling, Tamara's rapt attention fixated on Sam, waiting for him to continue. With one fingertip touching the top of the deck, he looked back to Tamara apologetically. “It's probably going to hurt. E-em-emotionally. Is it okay?”

Rubbing her face with her hands, Tamara nodded and smoothed back her hair, her dull eyes fixated on Sam's cards sitting pregnant on the tabletop. “I just want to know.”

Just as Sam reached for the deck to deal, he felt a small touch to his back, his brother's fingers lightly smoothing over his shoulder blade. The light reminder was like fortification for Sam, knowing his brother was there behind him. This part was always the most difficult.

“Tamara, you-you're...sick. Your energy i-i-is is sick. Not moving right. Se-severe blocks have to be cleared.”

Frowning, Tamara looked back and forth between the two of them. “I don't understand.”

“It's okay,” he assured her. “We'll fi-fin-...find it.” He pulled three cards to start with, flipping them all over at once and lining them up in a row. Hovering his left hand over the pair of three, he let his eyes close as he let his mental waters rise above his head, slipping deeper into the placid depths. “When you we-we-were young...a-a-an older man...a Pisces, he con-c-c-...he controlled you, and ke-kept you locked up...”

“My father,” she muttered, her face growing hard as granite. “He had a February birthday and he...yeah, he did. Locked me up in a room for days...I wasn't allowed to leave the house unless it was with him. When my mother left him, he....” Rubbing her temples with her fingers, she chewed on the memory, distaste evident in her voice. “He had me sleep in his bed. Take care of my siblings...take her place, basically.”

Sam could feel the shift of vibration in the room, sensing Dean's entire field shutting down like a power grid gone offline.

“Dean,” he said carefully, “wait for me out...o-ou-outside.”

Hovering in a moment of indecision, Dean finally backed away from the table, disappearing out of the trailer without another word. Sam could feel him standing just outside the door, and he turned his attention back to Tamara.

“Your heart center shut down,” he said, tapping on a card. “Th-this i-i-is one of the...the blocks.” Sam pulled two more cards and turned them both face up in a line beneath the first row. “Oh,” he said, surprised. “Y-you got out. Lived alo-al-alone. Independent,” he said, smiling at her warmly.

“Yeah,” she agreed, nodding as her features lost some of their tension. “I somehow landed a pretty decent job. Moved out, got my diploma...I just sort of left it all behind me.”

“But then...you m-m-m-...met ah- met someone. Got married. Then? It st-st-stared, yes?”

“Mm-hmm. Wasn't more than two weeks after we met we started fighting. Don't know what possessed me to marry him, but I did.”

“And is-is-is that why y-you know it's been seven ye-y-years? Because-”

“Because it all started when I got married,” she finished, clasping her hands together. “Can I tell you something? I...honestly, I don't love him. Not one bit. I don't know what I was thinking. But now that it's been so long, it isn't hard for me to see that he's...he's just like my father. Sometimes I think I was attracted to him because of that. Isn't that sick?”

“No.” Sam shook his head, pulling out a few more cards. “It's normal. It-it's h-h-hard to, t-t-o explain, but your patterns are...well, they're stuck o-o-n-on what happened to you.” Skimming his hands over cards in a new lineup, he took a deep breath through his nose. “Now y-y-you're still locked up-...like before, b-b-but, but now it's you locking yourself up. Tr-trying to stay safe. Don't t-ta-ta...take offense, but your marriage i-is-is part of it. It feels safe, because it f-fe-feels, feels...familiar, yes? Like your father. Safe and fam-f-familiar aren't the same, Tamara.”

The tears Tamara had staved off earlier were back, but this time she was doing nothing to hide them. Staring shell-shocked at the tabletop, thin, shining trails slid down the soft creases in her cheeks, too faint to be called wrinkles.

“Swords, swords, swords, all o-over, Tamara,” Sam said with a soft smile, trying pick up her spirits. “Gemini, yes? Sharp words, quick wit, a-an-an-angy outbursts...you're very good a-at-at, at winning. Arguments, especially?”

Sniffing, Tamara let the corners of her mouth tip upwards in a tiny smile. Her next sob sounded a little more like a chuckle. “That's me.”

“Tam-Tamara...” he pleaded, reaching out to take her hand again. “It's fixable.”

At that, her tears returned full force, and she shook her head, loosening her hand from his. “It's not,” she cried, “I've ruined everything. My life, it's-”

“It-it's not, not over. Let m-me help you make it right.”

The deep-set weariness in her face showed little trace of hope. Looking up at the ceiling in abandon, she said, “I wouldn't even know where to start.”

“It f-f-feels like too much now, but sm-s-small steps, okay? Not overnight.”

A dim, firefly light was visible behind the gloom in her visage. “What can I do?”

Sam took a precursory look around the tiny kitchen he and Tamara were seated in. “Dean and I...we'll h-h-have t-t-to sweep the energy here. Is that okay?”

“Of course. At night, though...after 11.”

“That's fine. B-b-but, but you, Tamara...do you want t-t-o let this go? It's hard,” he admitted, “you'll rem-remember things. Be angry...hurt...but af-af-aft-ter that, you'll start to heal.”

“I have to,” she said resolutely. “I can't let myself keep poisoning my daughter. I know you're right,” she admitted. “I'm still so angry...about everything. I just thought I was over it.”

“Not yet,” Sam said, gathering up his cards and shuffling them back into the deck. “Dean and I a-a-are staying in to-t-town for...a few weeks. I'm worried about yo-your energy. I'll need to, to get it started my-myself. Energy healing, twice a week.”

“Son,” she said, shaking her head, “if someone had told me last week I'd be sitting in my kitchen talking with handsome young man like yourself about energy healing, you can bet I'd a given them an earful,” she said, laughing out loud. The pure sound of it rang clear as a bell throughout the house, dispersing some of the fog Sam could feel dragging through the air. “If you think it'll help, I'll give it a shot. I just don't know how I'm ever going to repay you and your...is Dean your family?”

“My brother,” Sam said, gauging Tamara's reaction.

She gave him a strange little smile and said, “Huh.” That was all.

*~*

Part 2

“So, what?” Dean grumbled, awkwardly twirling a silver bottle cap between his fingers and fumbling every few seconds. Shifting into a semi upward position on his back, he elbowed the pillow behind his head into a more comfortable shape.

“What?” Sam glanced up quickly, keeping his attention on the glass dropper in his hand. One, two three, counting amber beads of liquid as they sank into the cup of water, muddying up the clarity.

“We're staying then?” Resignation in his voice, Dean watched Sam, waiting for an answer.

“Hmmm...”

“Goddammit, Sam, don't fucking start with that.” Tossing the bottle cap across the room at nothing in particular, Dean tried to toe off his shoes but the necessary coordination escaped him. “I really, really wanted to fucking kill something this time.”

Sam tilted his head back and threw back the mixture he'd made, placing the cup in the sink. “I know,” he replied quietly, walking slowly and steadily out of the kitchen and over to the bed. “I'm sorry.” Easing onto the foot of the mattress, he stilled Dean's movements wordlessly, unlacing each boot and sliding them off gently. He took both shoes with one hand and used the other to collect a couple of the empty beer bottles on the floor, tidying up a bit before bed.

Rubbing a weary hand over his face, Dean moaned miserably. “And now...now we gotta sit around, and...and wait around for...your fucking hand holding sessions...fuck. My head,” he drawled, flipping over onto his stomach.

Sitting on the opposite edge, Sam reached over and lightly stroked at the short, bristly hairs on the back of Dean's neck. “I'm sorry.”

“...Do we have to stay?” Turning his head towards Sam, Dean squinted upwards.

“...I-i-if we don't you mi-might have something to kill, after all.”

“Whatta ya mean?” Slurring slightly, Dean rolled back over, gazing up at Sam as if in a dream.

Frowning, Sam chewed on his lip for a moment before answering. “Those th-th-...thought forms a-a-are dangerous. They might break free fr-fro-from, from Tamara. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to scare her but...even though she loves her family, sh-she feels tra-tr-...trapped- by them.” He put his fingers through Dean's bangs, sliding the tips gently and soothingly across his scalp. She's draining them slowly.”

“Holy shit,” breathed Dean, eyes widening comically. “She's killing them? Like, for real?”

Nodding, Sam felt his mouth twist involuntarily. “She doesn't-doesn't-doesn't, uh... doesn't know it. But if it goes o-o-on much lo-longer, it's gonna detach from her a-a-a-... and become s-something else.”

“A demon?” Dean asked, eyes shining

“No.” Shaking his head, Sam let the tip of his index finger softly stroke the dip in Dean's chin just below his lower lip. “A devil.”

 

*~*

Sam slept with a strange shiver that night, curling up along his spine like someone else's sorrow, and he awoke with a start to find himself in a cold, empty bed. Wiping a hand over his face, he patted the sheets where Dean should have been and felt nothing. Dean hadn't slept here tonight.

Darkness still pervaded his sight, and from the look of the sky through the cracks in the blinds it was still night and yet almost morning, the psychic dead time where the business and chatter of all minds went silent for a few precious hours. In that hollow silence was one solitary sound, and, sitting up suddenly, Sam tilted his head and listened like a bloodhound with a scent.

The water was on in the bathroom. Throwing off the covers, Sam crept down the short motel room hallway and approached the bathroom, bright yellow fluorescent light spilling out from the the space beneath the closed door. He put his ear to the wood and listened. Over and over, the splatter of splashing water rang off the porcelain sink. It went on for as long as he stood silent and listened, for the hours or minutes it might have been, until he took hold of the knob and turned, opening the door with his heartbeat in his hands and his fingertips, pulsing beneath his skin. Everything felt like a shadow of itself.

Dean stood in front of the sink in his pajama pants and a long sleeved gray Henley, collecting water in cupped handfuls and splashing it across his face, rubbing and scrubbing at the skin. Steam rose from yellowing old sink, and Dean's face was flushed pink from the heat and friction, but he continued on, not even stopping to look at himself in the mirror. Just cleaning, rinsing off something invisible with steadfast determination.

“Dean?”

Dean didn't answer, and Sam thought perhaps he hadn't heard, but as he opened his mouth to call him louder the aging oval mirror over the sink caught his attention and his voice caught in his throat, gritty as sand.

Sam saw himself, as he was, and before him was Dean, but not as Sam had even known him, a Dean too young for Sam to remember. Scrubbing his face, his stringy blond hair falling into his hands as he cupped the water and clinging to his face in sopping tangles, he rinsed his face again and again.

“I-I-I-...Dean,” he tried again, reaching out to put a hand on Dean's shoulder.

Dean turned, saw Sam, and stopped, the water rushing into the sink growing hotter and starting to steam higher unattended, clouding up the mirror. Sam tried to meet his brother's eyes but couldn't help his own from darting between the two of them, both Dean and Dean reflected, a dusty child who couldn't have been more than eight or nine.

“How did you get here?” Dean asked, and the child, as well.

“I didn't m-mean to...” Letting go of Dean's shoulder, Sam leaned back. This wasn't waking Dean, he realized. It was the underlying version of his brother, the knowing self. “I'm so- I'm sorry.”

“Don't let me kill her.”

“Ah...Okay,” he nodded, the pressing mossy green stare unclouded and devoid of bravado, someone else entirely. “Who?”

“Me,” he replied, and then, “Me,” from the mirror, slightly out of sync. “Don't let me kill her.”

“I won't,” Sam assured, nervously shaking his head. This wasn't normal. He had no control over this visitation. He began to wonder, in the far reaches of his mind like a soup slowly bubbling away on the back burner, if he was the one who had slipped into Dean's field, or if Dean had somehow stumbled into his, like he was beginning to believe, however unprecedented it might be. Dean was the brawn of this operation, and for all Sam's insistence that he practice, Dean's energetic antenna had most likely been snapped off somewhere between birth and now. Sure, Sam could read him, read for him and sense his pattern like any other person, but when it came to that little psychic seedling that all humans have just waiting to be nurtured, Dean was noticeably barren. Or busy doing this, Sam noted with a frown.

“Don't let me kill her.”

“D-..D-do y-you know something? Tell me,” Sam urged, the distinct impression that something was moving over him, over all of them like a shadow from high in the sky. An unseen event.

“Out,” said Dean, and the smaller one chimed in, a half-beat off tune, lifting his hand to Sam's chest. “Out.”

Sam startled awake, his body jolting into wakefulness. The sheets beneath his skin felt damp and clung to him in places, his hair stringy with sweat across his brow. Dean lay on the right side of the bed, his back facing Sam, and as he watched he could see from the rise and fall of his brother's back that Dean wasn't quite asleep. Twisting off the sheets wrapped around his legs, Sam slid over on the mattress, touching lightly on the back of Dean's neck.

“Hmph...” Dean exhaled sleepily, the faint and tattered edges of sleep fluttering over his mind.

Sam bit his lip, moving his hand to his brother's shoulder and shaking him lightly. “Dean,” he whispered, the confusion and fear carrying over from his dream.

“Hm, What? Sam...” Wrenching his head around, Dean blinked blearily at Sam, the movement only partially visible in the dark room. “What, dude? I was almost asleep.”

“I know.” Crawling closer, Sam sat back on his heels and inspected Dean's face up close. “Wh-w-what, what's...” he trailed off, taking both hands in the air above Dean's head and pulling them down through the space on either side of his body, feeling the emanating waves rising off of Dean like shimmering undulations of heat from the desert floor.

“Oh, Christ, Sam,” Dean protested in a graveled tone, “I have a fucking headache, it's like,” he paused, glancing up at the little alarm clock on the nightstand, “almost 6 in the morning, and I really don't know what you're looking for, but...” Heaving out a sigh as he gave up his struggle, Dean let his arm flop to the mattress like weights and allowed Sam to read him. “What's the matter with you, anyway? You have a nightmare or some shit?”

“Something's off...” Sam mused, the words nearly hidden beneath his breath. From head to toe, a shadow covered Dean's energy from high above, the waves muted, waiting...anticipating. Sam felt his center of gravity shift carelessly, tossed like waves against the hull of a ship.

“Yeah, you,” Dean shot back, turning over in a huff. “Aren't you supposed to be...I don't know...Yoga-ing right about now?” Pulling at the pillow beneath Sam's knees, he yanked it out and covered his head. “Throw a few Oms out for me,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow.

Sam retreated from the room silently, the events of the night swimming in his stomach like a meal gone bad. He had the distinct impression of a looming shadow falling from high overhead, casting a black silhouette over his brother that Sam couldn't even begin to define.

*~*

Dropping the Impala keys in Dean's outstretched hand, Sam sat in the seat opposite his brother at the tiny motel table and stretched out his long legs.

“How's What's-Her-Face?”

Turning a disapproving eye on Dean, who began to gleam happily beneath the negative attention, Sam let out a short sigh. “Better.”

“Better like...we can start packing better, or better like go put down another few hundred on the room better?”

“Um...” Tucking a few stray strands behind his ear, Sam reached out with his other hand and lightly touched Dean's clasped fingers resting on the tabletop. When Dean made no move to pull away, Sam curled his fingers over his brothers and gave him an apologetic grin.

“Ugh, what's with that?” Looking overly exasperated, Dean rolled his eyes. “Didn't you get in enough cuddle time at the trailer park.” Despite the protest, he didn't remove his hand, and Sam leaned his head back against the wall and smiled cheerfully. “All right...I'll put down another 2 weeks. But it's been a month, Sam. I'm ready to ditch this shithole asap, and we gotta find a way to stack up a little more cash. That green shit you eat isn't cheap.”

“I know,” Sam conceded with a little nod. “B-b-but, but we're n-not done here. Not yet.”

“So, like...what have you two been doing all the time, anyway? You're hardly ever around here.”

“Dean...it's private.”

“What, for you or her?”

“Her,” Sam replied, cocking his head to give Dean a curious sideways glance, wrapping his fingers a little tighter around his brother's hand and savoring the rarity. “Y-y-you know, i-i-it's, it's just energy w-work. Balancing. We're not-not, not going out shopping o-o-or anything.”

Dean snorted, air huffing out his nose smugly. “Nah, I'm just bored, I guess. Hey, Sammy,” Dean started, turning a particularly cheeky grin to Sam, “what about me, huh? How come you never use any of that energy stuff on me?” he asked, the joking tone in his voice stopping just shy of his mirth-crinkled gaze.

Sam was quiet for a long moment before responding, the image of Dean, and the Dean in the mirror, staring back at him in his mind's eye. “I-I like you th-th-the way you are.”

*~*

Another night, another week, and Sam came home to find Dean holed up in the bathroom after a single shot of whiskey, his forehead pressed against the rim of the toilet as he moaned pathetically.

“Dean!” Sam sank to his knees and touched the skin on the back of Dean's neck, stirring another scratchy groan from Dean's throat. “What happened?”

“I don't...fucking...know...one drink, man, I swear. Came up so fast I barely had time to get in here.” Sitting upright, Dean titled to the right, wobbling on his knees. “I been feeling like shit all day.”

“I'm sorry.” Gently helping Dean to his feet, Sam tried to guide him out of the bathroom only to have Dean sleepily try to shove him off, the movement bereft of anger in the face of Dean's condition.

“I can walk fine. Just go fucking...make me something.”

“What?”

“I don't know, Sam, you're the one with all the fucking magic potions, figure it out.” Crawling onto the bed, Dean flopped down on his stomach, rubbing his face into the ugly bedspread.

Twisting his mouth in thought, Sam trailed his fingertips over the bottles and jars stacked up in the cabinets, tapping lightly on some, and hovering over others, listening and watching. Choosing three, he poured Dean a small glass of water and dripped deep colored liquids inside, measuring and counting until the whole concoction vibrated on just the right wavelength. The tonal quality of the water sang in such a pitch that Sam smiled despite his worry, feeling the rightness in the tune.

Dean choked it down with a gloomy cloud over his features, and for a few moments it was touch and go on whether the mixture would stay down, but after a couple of minutes his entire body relaxed, his muscles finally free from the enormous tension threading it up so tightly. Not quite drowsy and yet too relaxed to still be totally miserable, Dean lay on his side and watched Sam eating his dinner, his eyes darting back and forth as he feigned interest in the late night infomercials that played one after the other, as if reinforcing the idea that no one was really listening.

“Dean?”

“...Hm?”

Sam poked at the last few slices of strawberries on his plate, feeling anxious. “C-Ca...Can I, uh...I just want to, to-”

“Yeah, fine, go ahead,” Dean heaved out with a sigh, already aware of where Sam was headed. Lying on his back, his full, black lashes fluttered shut, resting gently on the high curve of his cheekbone as Sam rested on his knees beside him, hovering on the mattress with his wide palms outstretched and his fingers fanning. Slowly, carefully, and with hardly a sound he scanned his brother like a rake pulling through an unkempt lawn, leaving things as they were but getting a sense of what lay under the brush.

“Sammy?” Dean whispered. Sam gave him a brief glance and a nod, caught up in the multitude of sensations coursing through his hands and his mind. “When are you gonna tell me what this is about?”

Catching his teeth on his bottom lip, Sam pressed on, unsure of what to say. Then something very nearly material caught in his fingers and he stopped, his hands pausing in the air a few inches above Dean's hips.

“What the...” Hesitantly, he moved his hands up towards the solar plexus, the sun-flowering burst of yellow as radiant as ever, then edging them back down again and once more delving into the sacral chakra. He hadn't been mistaken. A tiny, pulsating piece of stardust lay dormant, thrumming in tune with the rest of his brother's energy, and then he began to understand, and he stopped. Stopped everything, pulled his hands away from Dean like a child with his fingers thrust into a fire, and stared.

“Well?” asked Dean, impatience beginning to form on his still lax features. After a moment he frowned, watching Sam suspiciously. “What's wrong with you?” he asked quietly, his face mere feet from Sam's startled expression. “What,” he laughed, “is my fucking Qi messed up or something? Come on, man, don't make that face. You're freaking me out.” He sat up, eyes scanning Sam's face with a faded smile wearing thin.

“I-I-I-...I- th-that...” Sam closed his mouth tight and set it in a firm line, keeping his face controlled. Backing up, he stepped off the bed, feeling as though he were swimming across the room to get his jacket. Every step he wanted to take put up fierce resistance.

“Hey, where do you think you're going?” Dean's concern tilted and gave way to annoyance. “Quit being so dramatic.”

Sam wanted to apologize, but he knew his tongue wouldn't cooperate, and he shot his brother a silent prayer for forgiveness as he swung his jacket around his back and slid it up his arms, disappearing through the front door in the middle of the night.

*~*

“What's this?” Dean asked abrasively, eying the brown paper bag Sam held outstretched. When Sam only waved it closer, mouth set grimly, Dean snatched it and opened the top, peering down through the open hole in the top. He paused, taking in the contents, and then a small, slow smile spread crazed and wondrous, and he cast his eyes back to his brother. “Holy shit,” he he whispered slowly, “this is so deep end that I'm not even pissed at you anymore.” He emptied the bag on the foot of the bed, the box falling face up on the disheveled sheets. “Are you insane? You want me to...what?...Seriously?” Incredulity filled his features, a sick sort of bravado lined with exasperation and, at the edges, desperation.

Unsure of what to anticipate, Sam took a step back, made it two, and leaned back against the motel room wall, the material of his jacket making a slick sound. Watching Dean, he made no move to speak, not trusting his mouth to make amends.

“This is ridiculous,” Dean rambled on, a slight crackle in the laughter that bubbled up from his throat. Chuckling, he ran a nervous hand through the short, dusty hairs at the back of his head, staring at the box at the end of the bed. Glancing at Sam, to the little box, and back to his brother, Dean hesitated. With a little huff of startled, uneven laughter, he scooped it up and disappeared into the hallway.

Twenty minutes went by, and Sam crept closer and closer to the bathroom door, finally hovering in the hallway just beside the doorknob, his arms around his knees as he rested his chin and waited. Finally, he tapped hesitantly on the door, the sound of nothing driving him mad with worry.

The door opened, which surprised him more than any other option, and Dean ghosted out into the hallway, his face set in an immoveable mask. Without so much as a second's glance in Sam's direction, Dean drifted down the hall like a gossamer caught in a breeze, his fist closing slowly over the neck of his half-empty bottle of whiskey. Sam tiptoed around behind him, sitting on the edge of the bed and hunching over, doing his best to disappear completely.

No one spoke or moved, the television droning on in the background the only way to measure the passing of time.

The burden of guilt broke Sam first, and wrapping his arms around his waist defensively he let his gaze drop to the carpet and muttered, “I'm sorry.”

Dean didn't answer, didn't so much as move, and still as a statue he stood silent, the physical manifestation of the eye of a storm.

“I-I-I...I k-know it's my f-f-f-fa-...fault...” His words caught on his teeth and his tongue and tripped him up, and his lips felt like stone. A pulling sensation started in the space before his throat, signaling him to stop, but he couldn't bear to heed it knowing what he'd done. “...I-I'm so-”

With strength immemorial Dean flew into motion, whipping the thick glass bottle around in his hand and hurling at the wall like a pitcher, his whole body participating in the motion. Sam closed his mouth, curling himself into an even smaller shape than previously.

“This is fucking stupid,” he said, after pausing for some time, the low pitch of his graveled voice eerily quiet. “Not possible.”

Sam bit his lip. The topic hadn't been breached in years.

“Sam, don't fucking pretend I'm not talking,” he warned, still facing away from Sam and staring at the spot on the wall where tiny rivulets of alcohol streamed downward, joining on the floor with the shattered sparkle of broken glass. “Not possible. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” Sam whispered.

“Not possible,” he repeated, each duplication like a litany to his brother. “I'm not a girl.”

“Dean-”

“What?” he answered sharply, and Sam almost choked back his words, but some inner sickness pulled the words from his head and kicked them out of his mouth.

“Be-before, you were.”

That was enough to turn Dean's head, and he tilted it in Sam's direction, meeting his brother's tentative gaze with a face full of fire, the playful twinge of a guitar string just before it snaps and slices open your skin.

“This is all your fault,” he affirmed calmly, turning to fully face his brother.

Nodding jerkily, Sam ducked his head under the force of his brother's stare.

“Say it.”

“I-I-It's, it's my fault. I know, but D-Dean-”

“What? What? What's gonna happen?” he demanded, his voice fraying around the edges. “Oh, fuck,” he moaned, his eyelids fluttering as he reached out and steadied himself with his hand on the wall. “What the fuck am I gonna do?” he asked the empty space between his face and the wall, the fury in his tone turning over into desperation.

“No, it-it-it's, it's not...it's not gonna ch-change, Dean.” When Dean didn't answer, Sam pressed on, trying to right what he'd wronged. “You're s-st-still m-my brother, I didn't me-”

“Oh, well, thank you very much.” Pushing back off the wall, Dean stomped across the room and raised his hand, knocking the ceramic lamp off the nightstand mere inches from where Sam sat. Sam flinched but held still, relief flooding his body when Dean went for the lamp, which sailed a few feet before tumbling to the floor, somehow keeping it's shape. “Don't fucking bother pretending, Sam. I know you still think of me as a girl.”

“I-I really don't.”

“I'm just confused, right?” Standing over Sam with a definitively aggressive stance, Dean rained down his verbal assault, descending wildly into unbridled madness. “Still waiting for me to get over it and be the fucking sister you always wanted?”

Raising his hands in front of his chest, Sam only slightly noticed that they were trembling. “No...” Shaking his head exaggeratedly, he reached up carefully to try and take one of Dean's hands.

Dean backed away, furious features glancing towards the kitchen before retreating. “Fuck you, Sam. Don't act like I'm the only fucked up one around here.” Flipping the switch on the wall, the fluorescent light flickered to life, filling the little kitchenette with a jaundiced yellow light. “I'm fucking sick and tired of this...shit!” he exclaimed, tearing open the cabinets and frantically grabbing at the glass bottles and plastic containers lining them from top to bottom.

“Wait! Dean, I-I-I'm, I'm sorry!” Jumping up from the bed, Sam ran into the kitchen but stopped just short of his brother, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “I p-p-pro-promise, okay? You are my brother, okay? I be-b-believe you. I always have!”

“You with your fucking pills, and your potions, and your powders...do you really think this is gonna stop you from getting sick again? Because it's not gonna work, Sam!” Staring Sam down like a caged, wild thing, he took a small amber bottle by the neck and smashed it on the edge of the beige tile counter, the splintering sound jolting Sam back a step, his eyes closing involuntarily. When they reopened, he found Dean with his hand dripping, the leg of his jeans and the linoleum stained a deep burgundy.

“Don't,” he pleaded, but his request was lifeless. Hanging back to watch, he shuddered as Dean broke jar after jar, cringing at the helplessness of it all.

“Why?” Crash.

“Be-b-b-beca-”

“Stop. Fucking. Stuttering!” A clear jar fill with dried plant matter hurdled to the floor, accentuating his point. “I'm done.” Abandoning his task, Dean grabbed his jacket, fished his wallet out of the pocket and threw out a couple of bills onto the soaked kitchen counter, the green paper darkening with moisture. “Here. That's it. I can't take this shit anymore.”

“Wait, what?” Panic rushed white hot into Sam's veins and propelled him forward instantly, his hands catching Dean's arms and pulling him back into the living room. Dean fought back, yanking himself away and stuffing his feet hastily into his boots, the laces clattering in the doorway. “Dean...y-y-yo-you you...can't.” Sam's head began to go blank, and his breath started to force itself out of his lungs in short, rhythmic waves, the tips of his fingers tingling. “Dean...”

“Shut up, Sam.”

“J-just don't, Dean.” Trying to get a hold on his breathing, he held a lungful of air in for a few moments, thinking of what Dean had asked of him. He couldn't fail now. “You don't want to kill her.”

The sourest look of distaste twisted Dean's lips, and he sneered in Sam's direction before slamming the door hard, the thunderous sound shaking the thin walls of the shabby motel. Holding his arms around his waist, Sam stamped down his panic and stared at the trail of destruction his brother had left in his wake.

*~*

Sam wasn't sure how much time he had left in the motel, but it was something like a week, two if he was extremely lucky. When the second day elapsed into darkness, he allowed himself to cry for the first time since his brother left.

On the third day, he called Tamara to let her know that he wouldn't be able to come by for awhile. He didn't know how to tell her how long, and when she asked he fell silent, stammering on the same syllable until she asked him where he was staying. Three hours later she was knocking on the door, Melissa melted quietly against her side, a three bean casserole in her arms and a big, bright smile lighting up her face. Just the sight shifted something inside of Sam, unearthing a sense of purpose he'd forgotten in the last few days. Her hair was fresh and pulled back from her face in a loose braid, her clothes cheery and bright, and as he moved aside to let them into the room Sam stared a little too long, amazed at the difference between this woman and the one he'd met weeks ago.

“Hey, sweetie,” she called from the kitchen, setting down the dish and coming back around to give him a tight hug. “I hope you don't mind me stopping by. You just...” she paused, brushing her hands down her colorful skirt, “oh, Sam.” Looking him up and down for the first time since she'd arrived, she held him at arm's length and studied his face for a few silent moments. “You look just awful,” she admitted, cracking a smile. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Um...” Sam racked his threadbare mind for a memory of food, “Ye-y-yesterday.”

“Well, you just sit down right there, all right? Melissa, you sit down too, and just lemme get some plates ready.” She found the stack of paper plates on the counter and set about fixing lunch. “Now, listen, you don't gotta tell me a thing, all right? But I just knew something was up when you called me.” Without turning to look at Sam, she talked as she worked, bustling around the little kitchenette in a cheerful flurry. Sam watched, feeling the dreary energy that had grown stagnant in the air begin to loosen just slightly.

“Here ya go.” Setting a plate in front of both Sam and Melissa, she hovered until they both started eating and then darted away again, picking up clothes and trash on her way across the living room, making Sam drop his fork in horror.

“Wait, I-” He started, cut off when Melissa licked him lightly on the foot. She shook her head at him, a wry smile crossing her face that eerily made him homesick for his brother.

“She'll feel better if you let her.”

“Hmmm...” Sam whined, deep in his throat, feeling more embarrassed than anything else.

“Oh, quit it,” Tamara snapped lovingly. “Now, look Sam, really,” she said, approaching his chair and resting a hand on his shoulder. “Now, you said yourself that everybody needs help sometime. I've taken a lot from you and I've never given you anything in return, cause I know you won't take it!” she reprimanded, her smile reaching her eyes. “But at least let me be here for you.”

It wasn't familiar, the sensation of trusting someone who wasn't a Winchester, but it wasn't entirely unwelcome. “O-okay,” he conceded, a brief smile turning his mouth, and he could feel the oddness of the motion, like a muscle gone too long unworked.

There wasn't a single thing he could tell her about the situation without alienating her forever. Sam already knew that; he didn't need Dean to tell him how far removed from acceptance he would always be. But he let himself bask in the illusion for a few hours, and sat with Tamara as he imagined two friends might do, killing time with idle, amicable chatter.

“I think we-w-we're gonna, gonna, stay a little l-lo-l-longer,” he said, clasping his fingers together at the table. Melissa sat on the neatly made bed, flipping through basic cable channels happily. “In fact, I-...I might ha-ha-have to f-find work.”

“Well, I won't object to having you around longer,” she laughed. “And anyway, family business or not, it ain't right for you Dean to be trapsin' back and forth across the country like vagabonds. You're too young for that kind of life.” Wrapping her hands around the mug of tea she'd fixed with some dried leaves that had escaped the torrential storm, she considered him before continuing. “When you come over, I feel so much better, and each time I feel like I'm learning so much from you. It's hard for me to remember that you're still so young, Sam.”

“...Me, too,” he admitted.

“Oh, my goodness...you know what?” Setting down the mug with an audible thud, Tamara opened his purse and pulled out a pen and a piece of paper. “Boy, your timing in spot on. Did you see that new shop that opened up on 4th street, over by the freeway exit? They're adding some small tourist shops out there on the edge of town, since this place gets a lot of travelers. There's this one I think would be perfect for you. Here...” she paused, writing down the intersection. “I can't remember the exact address, but I drove by it and I thought of you. Here you go.”

Taking the paper from Tamara's outstretched hand, Sam studied the paper with his lip between his teeth.

*~*

On the morning of the fourth day, Sam woke up at 5:30 am, determined to get back to his schedule. When, not if, Dean came back, Sam had to be stronger. The directions Tamara had written down sat face up on the table, watched Sam as he chewed his meals meticulously, a chicken scratch representation of his ability to take care of Dean the way Dean had done for him since he was a baby. Invigorated by this new sense of responsibility, Sam embraced the day with a new fervor.

On the fifth day, after ninety minutes of Yoga, Sam mustered up the courage to read for Dean. With the deck that Dean had given Sam on his twelfth birthday, Sam shuffled, the flicker of paper on skin lulling him almost immediately into a channeling state. Strangely, his hands seemed satisfied with one card.

“Wands,” he said, “Eight,” and then, remembering that there was no one taking notes, he fell silent, tapping his finger on the tip of the card. Smiling softly, he gathered up the card and slipped it back into the deck, shuffling it away. Tonight. He'd know by tonight.

*~*

10:30 pm.

The calm, gentle quiet of evening was broken by loud, uneven footsteps shuffling just outside the motel room door. Sam held his position, peacefully cross-legged on the comforter, and waited. The sound of the key, which Dean either hadn't thought to leave or kept on purpose, scrabbled and scraped at the deadbolt longer than usual, and eventually it slipped into the lock and turned heavily. Nearly tumbling through the doorway headfirst, Dean managed to keep his hold on the handle and spun around, leaning his full weight on the door until it slammed shut. Pressing his forehead against the chipped white wood, he called out for his brother.

“Hey, Sammy...you 'ere?”

“Here, Dean.” Crawling across the mattress and swinging his legs over the edge, Sam perched at the foot of the bed.

Dean whipped his head towards the sound, his eyes tracker in large jumps till he found Sam. “Fuck,” he mumbled.

“Dean...l-l-listen, I-”

“You knew...I was comin' back...huh?” Weaving slightly towards Sam, Dean pressed down on Sam's shoulder's, pushing him on to his back. “Man,” he chuckled, “I reeeeally fucked up big time.” Knees on either side of Sam's hips, he leaned in and kissed his brother hard. Sam tasted blood and whiskey, smelled smoke and ash, and kissed back, meeting each rough stroke of lips with a generous reception.

When Dean pulled back, the light from the repositioned bedside lamp hit him full in the face, illuminating a nasty blue bruise on the side of his cheek that was just turning over into pale yellow.

“Dean,” Sam admonished quietly, tracing a light fingertip across the damage. “What happened?”

“What?” he replied, genuinely confused, the notion dawning on him moments later. “Oh,” he laughed. “What happened to my face. Dude...is that really what you wanna ask me?”

Mouth agape, Sam's voice stilted in his throat, realization striking him hard. “...Did you?”

With a heavy sigh, Dean let his head fall forward, resting his forehead on Sam's just a little too hard, but he didn't even seem to notice. “I should have, man...but I kept seeing your stupid fucking face in my head. Made it kinda hard.”

Sam laughed at that, more relieved than amused, his body flooding with a weightless energy. “Dean,” he started, grabbing at his brother's arms and lifting so he could sit up, “I wa-w-want to, to fix this. I can get a-a-a a job, and we-”

“No, no, no, noooo...” Dean trailed off, waving his hands around sloppily, his upper lip curling in annoyance. “Don't start treating me like I'm your fucking wife, asshole. This is my. Fucking. Job,” he said pointedly, jabbing himself in the chest with each word, sleepy eyes peering at Sam moodily. “I'm the hunter, you're the psychic...you just...you don't fucking get it. Why don't you get it, Sammy?” he pleaded, losing his balance and tilting slightly to the right before Sam reached out and righted him.

“I do get it-”

“No...you don't.” Shaking his head sullenly, Dan stared at the bedspread, avoiding Sam's eyes. “Dad gave me this one thing to do. Sam'll never be a hunter, he says, it's gotta be me. Protect Sammy, he says, he's your eyes and ears. Can't leave him, gotta keep him safe.” Rubbing the back of his head with his eyebrows pitched worriedly, he let out a weighted breath. “It's my life, man. Protecting you is all I got. I wanna do it, Sam,” he stressed, “I wanna be the one that takes care of you.”

“Dean,” Sam stuttered out, his head swimming with Dean's unbridled pain. The sensation poured off of his brother like water rushing over rocks, swift and sharp and deadly. “I-...y-you are. But you have- y-y-you, you...can't you just t-take a, a-a- break?”

“No, dude,” Dean retorted, his face a mixture of distaste and weariness. “I mean for life. What the fuck did he say, huh? All the time...heroes, man. Again and again, forever.”

“Dean, you can't...” Biting his lip, Sam walked over his words carefully, grabbing Dean by his shoulders and forcing him to look him in the eye. Dean shied away at first, guilt flooding his features, but Sam was patient. “You're m-my, my brother. My family. Doesn't th-that g-g-give, give me the right to help you? Please...just for-fo-fo-for a while. You've been there m-my, my...my whole life. I can do this.”

Their eyes locked for a long minute, and Dean was the first to look away, casting his eyes at the wall behind Sam's head, distant relief under the defensive stare.

“...You can't keep it, you know,” he mumbled, his eyelids shuttering as his head tilted to the side drowsily.

His hand on the side of Dean's head, cradling the bruised skin and holding his steady, Sam leaned in. “I know,” he admitted before parting his lips and pressing them to Dean's.

*~*

Sam left a sour faced, silent Dean to nurse his headache the following afternoon, taking the Impala keys from his brother's jacket and giving him a gentle brush on his neck, soliciting a sleepy sneer from Dean. Sam smiled in return and slipped out the door, sure to close it softly on his way out.

The shop was exactly where Tamara said it would be, and Sam pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine, sitting quietly for a few moments to get a feel for the place. Into the Light, a perfect tourist trap situated right off the freeway on a single street of trinket shops and local artisan goods. Sam knew before he opened the Impala door that someone inside the store knew what they were doing, feeling the distinct geometric imprint of angelic energy.

With his worn blue folder under his arm, he locked up the car and strode into the store, feeling a sudden rush of insecurity at tackling this on his own. Steeling himself with thoughts of his brother, he approached the man at the glass counter with what he hoped was an open, smiling expression. The shop keep was older, still retaining too much youth to be called elderly, and his glasses sat perched at the very tip of his nose as he peered over them at Sam placidly.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes,” Sam replied, clenching his fingers tightly at the edge of his file. “I-I-I, I'm l-looking for a-a p-place to read.”

“Oh?” The statement piqued the man's interest, and he took a long appraising look over Sam from head to toe. “Hm,” he hummed, frowning slightly. “How old are you?”

“T-twenty two.”

The clerk raised a conspicuous eyebrow. “Can I see your I.D.?”

Sam handed it over, and after examination the man handed it back, surveying him a little easier this time. “I've got an extra room in the back. I've already got a Reiki master and angel therapist, but there's some empty spaces in the schedule. Store takes ten percent of your earnings, under the table. What do you do?”

“Um, in-i-intutive tarot, energy reading...plant medicine,” he said, unable to stop the twinge of hurt that came up as he remembered his greatly reduced collection.

“Interesting.” Warming up, he regarded Sam's face thoughtfully. “You've got the right look. You're young, good looking, unassuming...you'll have a lot of repeat clients, especially from the female clientele. It could work. I need to see your references...you brought them?”

“One,” Sam affirmed, handing over the old blue folder he'd been carrying, the ends dogeared from too many trips in a duffel bag.

Opening the folder, the man briefly glanced at the single sheet of paper inside, looked back at Sam, back to the paper, and then broke out in a wide grin. “Kid, what is this?”

Cringing inwardly, Sam did his best to keep his face calm. “M-my, my reference.”

The clerk stared harder at the paper, re-reading it as if he thought he'd made a mistake. “So...you saying you've read for Sonia Gray, the celebrity medium, and she took the time to write you a reference letter?”

As one of the only things Sam had to his name that wasn't a forgery, it was difficult for him to react accordingly. “Um...there's a-a-a, a num-number if you want to-to call...”

Sighing with what sounded like a smattering of annoyance, the man took down Sam's information hastily and promised to give him a call if something opened up.

*~*

Sam began to push the food on his plate into carefully arranged lines, cutting each piece smaller and smaller until he had perfect, orderly rows of food, and when he was finished it was like eating security itself. Piece by piece, he ate methodically, Dean's watchful eyes taking it all in with a blank stare.

“So like,” Dean started, pressing at his temples to ward off the last of the headache, “is there some sort of...pattern for this one?”

“It's arranged a-a-ac-ac-according to m-macro nutrients.”

“Ah,” nodded Dean, cramming a handful of soft french fries into his mouth at once. “Hey, hey,” he said, a low grin breaking ground, his cracking voice livening up a bit, “do mine.”

Sam surveyed his brother's plate, lowering his lashes in discontent. “It's done,” he said, pointing at the solidifying gravy pooling around the country fried steak. “Fat...f-fat, a-and fat.”

Cackling, Dean speared a bite of steak with his fork and stuffed in into his face happily. “Mmm,” he moaned, drawing it out purposely.

Sam chuckled, mirroring his brother's mischievous grin. His chest felt open, his heart center flooding and expanding under the heavenly pressure. This time, he could fix it. Everything would finally get better.

*~*

“Hey, some dude called while you were in the shower,” Dean yelled, not bothering to turn his head away from the football game that had had him preoccupied all afternoon. Taking a huge gulp of his Coke, he leaned back against the mound of pillows that he'd stacked up and squinted at the screen of his cell phone. “Into the Light...what the fuck? Ugh..are you doing come crossing-over shit?”

“W-w-what did he, he say?” Toweling his hair, Sam pushed the longer bits from his eyes and took the phone from his brother.

“Said to call him back. He sounded kind of, uh, surprised. Heh...he called on your reference, huh?” Tossing Sam a knowing smile, he turned back to the television, chuckling low under his breath. “Fucker. Wish I could have seen his face.”

The man from the shop, Dave, Sam learned, was in fact the sole owner, and he had taken a moment to call the number on the reference letter. “Well,” he admitted, “I certainly wasn't expecting your reference to go through, let alone get the opportunity to speak with Miss Gray myself!”

“Oh?” Sam answered, smiling to himself.

“Anyways, Sam, I'm sorry for what happened earlier...if you like I can give you your schedule, that is, if you haven't found something else.”

“No, I-I-I'm still i-interested.”

“Fine,” Dave replied warmly, still excited from his previous conversation. “So, you're welcome to schedule any clients, and I'll also need you to take any walk ins we have while you're in. Can you start Tuesday at, let's see...10 am?”

“Yes. Thank you,” Sam said enthusiastically. “I'll be th-th-there.”

Handing Dean the phone, Sam sat down beside him, resting his forehead on Dean's shoulder. “I got it,” he whispered. Dean didn't say a word, exhaling through his nose in a miffed fashion. “I go-g-gotta go i-i-in on T-Tuesday...is it okay?”

“Fuck, Sam, it's fine!” Dean huffed, shifting so that he was on the far side of the bed. Sam let him go, vowing to give Dean as much time as he needed to get used to the idea. Still, Sam was relatively sure he never would. It wasn't forever, just a few months.

*~*

Sam fell back in love with research. Any mention of pregnancy or childbirth was, in an unspoken understanding between the brothers, totally off limits for conversation. Spending inordinate amounts of time basking in the lamplight glow of his old laptop, Sam traversed a previously unexplored level of health and healing, methodically taking notes and rummaging though old glass bottles, taking stock of his (now dwindling) supplies. Upon the discovery of a beneficial root that was purported to grow locally, he insisted on a field trip.

Dean heaved out a sigh that might have weighed a ton or so, clomping down on thick, unkempt patches of weeds with his boots as they made their way through the wild. “Why,” he began, slapping at a low hanging branch, “can't you go and buy this fucking thing at a shop?”

“I want this one r-r-ra-raw.” Turning his head to and fro, Sam surveyed the lightly wooded area, the smell of grass and open air under his nose. The wind tasted clean.

“What the- ...Goddammit!” Dean began to swat at his unbuttoned flannel overshirt. “There's...thistles on me. Fuckin'-”

“That's it!” Sam exclaimed, backtracking to where Dean stood angrily picking at the burrs on his sleeve. “Y-y-y-you, you found it.”

Squinting upward, Dean took in the full range of foliage. “This is a tree, dude.”

“No...it's just b-big,” Sam said, kneeling down and looking under a large, flat green leaf to check the color. “I need the ro-r-root.”

“Why?”

Exhaling through his nose, Sam peered at Dean, his eyes shielded from the sun by the large plant. “For you,” he answered, trying not to let the guilt seep into his features.

Dean stared back for a long moment, emptiness in his eyes as he watched Sam's face, reviewing every movement with a fine toothed comb. Finally, he sat down on the ground below the wide, heart shaped leaves, crossing his legs and picking at a tangle of grass at his feet. Like the swell of a fertile green moor, the barest protrusion stretched the edge of his thin white undershirt.

“So what,” he said, his tone refreshed, “we're digging this thing up?”

“Yeah.” Pulling out his rusted trowel, Sam moved about on his knees until he got a good grip on the stalk. Jostling it at the base to get a good grip, one of the outer stalks shimmied a bit too close, snaring Dean by the side of the head and lodging a burr in his freshly shorn hair.

“What- son of a bitch!” he yelled.” Sam couldn't help but let loose a cackle.

*~*

The passing of time left Dean a little more hollow each day. On a Thursday, he left, and returned the following Saturday, his hands eager and his mouth soft and spiced with alcohol. Sam pulled off a chunk of the taproot they'd dug up together and boiled it for an hour early the next morning, waking Dean to drink down the water. Groggy and naked from the waist down, Dean stared at the dark, steaming water in the mug and blinked.

“You know, you could not be any less like that weird old couple in Rosemary's Baby if you tried.”

It was the only joke Dean was ever able to make about the precarious situation.

Sam was only thankful that Dean was trying at all. Dean fell asleep with a pile of Coke cans beside the bed, rather than the six pack that had been his habit. On a night somewhere between the fourth and fifth month, Dean got hammered for the last time.

“And you,” he slurred angrily, tossing the empty bottle in his hand behind him. It bounced against the wall behind him but didn't break, landing on the carpet with a soft thud. “Well, you must be fuckin' satisfied now, huh?”

“C-come on, Dean, please,” Sam pleaded, his hands on Dean's shoulder, trying to gently guide him to the bed. “Just l-l-l-lay d-down.”

“No,” Dean snapped, yanking himself away so hard he almost toppled over. Sam shadowed him, prepared to catch him if he had to. “No, no, no, no...no.” Finger pointing at Sam's chest, Dean jabbed him with each “no”. “It's like,” he started, scrunching up his eyes in a pained expression, “you know...like you wanted this to happen.” Waving his hands at his swollen abdomen, his face turned menacing. “Why not you, huh?” he demanded. “Why me? Fuck,” he said, swaying a bit on his feet and steadying himself with the television, “why me, Sammy?”

Sam bit his lip, unwilling to answer. Pointing out the obvious wouldn't do anything but aggravate the situation.

“Oh, of course,” Dean ground out bitterly, “right. Cause you're the real guy here. Fuck you, Sam.” Gearing up for a swing, Dean threw wide, Sam easily stepping left and catching his brother's arm in his hand. Bracing for a struggle, Sam instead found himself supporting Dean's weight, his brother going limp in his arms.

“Dean?” Sinking to his knees, Sam wrapped his long arms around Dean and held on tighter, tighter still when the first audible sob broke free from Dean's lips. Sam sat stunned, listening to the sound like a long lost song, a bitter lullaby not heard in years.

“Oh, God,” Dean moaned, his voice low in his throat, rough as gravel and stuck under his skin, “I'm a freak. I'm a fucking mess.”

“No,” Sam whispered, shaking his head, but for himself or his brother he wasn't quite sure. “You're not.”

Dean pressed his face harder into Sam's chest, fisting his hands into Sam's shirt. He could feel the slight damp soaking into the fabric, and he curled his hands around Dean's waist and waited.

“Sammy, this...I just want to die. It's disgusting...it makes me sick, man, just...just fucking looking in the mirror. I hate this. I feel like...”

“...Like what?”

A shudder traveled the length of Dean's body, his tears flowing freely. “Nobody noticed before, but now...when someone looks at me, I just want to fuckin' kill them. They can tell, that I'm...goddammit,” he cursed, rubbing his face with the back of his hand. “They think I'm a girl, Sammy. They think it, and it makes me sick-” A choked back sob burst forth, and Dean grabbed the back of Sam's head in drunken desperation, hiding his face in Sam's neck and holding on for dear life.

“I-I-I k-k-know you're not, Dean.”

Sam could feel Dean's breath on his neck, labored and weighed down by alcohol.

“Are you sure?” Dean demanded, sounding despondent. “How do you know? You're just...you're just trying to make me feel better,” he slurred in annoyance, pushing back a little to meet Sam's eyes.

Frowning in consideration, Sam appraised his brother honestly before responding. “I know be-b-because you do,” he said, brushing a small piece of lint from his shirt out of Dean's eyebrows. “You've a-a-alw-ways known who y-you, you are. Ever s-since I can remember, you w-we-were m-my big brother,” he said with a small smile, feeling the dawn breaking through his heart center. The energy filled his words and permeated the space around Dean, a tiny droplet of pure emotion in an inky, polluted lake.

Dean stared, his eyes dropping slightly, and after a moment's open mouthed hesitation he leaned in, clattering his teeth against Sam's clumsily as their mouths met, Sam easily tilting Dean's face with his fingertips on his cheeks, tracing softly, reading the patterns of energy there. The hard lump of Dean's stomach pressed into Sam's and he smiled briefly into the kiss, resisting the urge to put his hand there. Still, once the idea was there, it was difficult to get rid of. Dean put his hands on Sam's shoulders and pulled himself closer, and there was that bump again, insistent as ever against his stomach, and with a twinge of evasive guilt he thought about how he'd knocked up his own brother. The mere fact set his blood aflame, more turned on now than he could ever remember being, and unable to stop himself his hands left Dean's waist and slid over the curve of his belly.

A puff of air left Dean's mouth, and he jumped slightly, laughing under his breath. “Quit it, asshole,” he murmured, tipping slightly to the left. Staring at Sam with heavily lidded eyes, he wavered uneasily. “Fuck, I'm too drunk for this shit.”

“Wa-w-wanna lay down?” Sam asked, getting to his feet to help Dean up.

“I can fucking stand, thank you very much,” Dean trawled noisily, staggering into a standing position only to flop down on the mattress moments later, curling into a lanky ball, his limbs twisted into a tight, defensive position. Sam waited until he fell asleep and undid all the kinks, pulling up the covers and setting out more of the fresh root to boil in the morning.

That was the last time Dean drank until the following year.

*~*

“T-T-Tam-Tamara!” Sam said incredulously, smiling genuinely as she stepped through the open doorway into his room at the shop. “Where have y-y-you been?”

“Just spreadin' my wings,” she replied, grinning from ear to ear. “How about you, sugar? You're set up all nice and cozy here, ain'tcha?” She gave him a long, quiet hug, and he could taste the sincerity, the gaping chasm beneath her feet.

“Did you l-le-leave for good?” he asked, stepping back to survey her better.

“Can't hide a thing from you, can I?” she smiled, her grin tainted bittersweet. Wringing her hands together, she brushed a lock of flowing hair from her forehead. “It was time,” she admitted, nodding once at Sam's concerned expression. “I was ready.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Now, don't even start with that. Every other word out of your mouth is some sorta apology,” she chastised, a glint of kindness shining in her eyes. “Now, I'm not here to make you feel bad. I hope you don't mind, but I brought somebody with me.”

“N-n-no, it's- it's fine,” he stammered, caught off guard. “I don't have an-a-an-any, anyone scheduled today.”

“She's in a bad way, this one...got herself caught in a real mess. I know I don't need to tell you anything, but she's, well...” she leaned in, her voice lowering to a near whisper. “Barely fourteen years old, and she just up and quit talkin' one day. Almost three weeks ago now, it was. Her momma's desperate...well, I didn't know if it was all right or not, but...just have a look and you'll see.”

April was a thin, pale girl, long and lanky with smooth black hair and hollows under her eyes. She sat across from Sam, the two of them separated by the small card table, and stared at the floor, her white arms folded across her stomach.

“April,” Sam started quietly, tilting his head to side, considering. “Y-your, your arms. Crossed like that, y-y-you...someone took your po-power away from you.”

Slowly, edging forth like a frightened rabbit from the brush, April's eyes tracked inch by inch, meeting Sam's open gaze. Crystal clear blue eyes like a Texas summer glazed over, staring at Sam like he'd slapped her across the face.

After a few more seconds of silence, he continued, putting his left hand flat on the tabletop.

“I won't tell,” he promised.

She smelled of young flowers, a cute teenage perfume, and as she began to hesitantly lean forward he caught the scent of something new, something vaguely familiar that tugged at this senses. Pursing her colorless lips, she gave him her hand, her pallid features mildly curious over Sam, his strange face and even stranger ways.

Sinking into her field was like being tossed carelessly into a churning ocean, tumultuous and filled with wrath. Like a capsized boat Sam felt wrenched in a million different directions, and he felt his right hand gripping the edge of the table so tightly it shook for a brief second.

Something fresh, recent and still stinging with new hurt had happened here. Not only that, but it gave rise to a secondary danger, something threatening, looming in the shadowy future. He let go then, unsure if wanted or even needed to continue.

“Ah...okay,” he said on a light sigh, trying to keep his head from swimming. “There's so-s-s-some damage to your energy, it's recent and, um...well, i-i-i-it's, it's too fresh t-to work with. You're st-still in, still shock.” Pressing his lips in a thin, flat line, he waited until he had a bit better hold over his mouth. “Are you going t-t-to turn him in?”

Sniffing in hard through her nose, April, turned her head away just slightly.

“O-o-okay.” Rummaging through his bag of thick glass bottles and plastic containers, he fished out a tiny glass dropper bottle and an aged paper envelope, smaller than a letter and rectangular in shape. “This one,” he said, pushing the little bottle across the table, “Flowers. You take it fo-f-four times a-a-a day. Four drops. Come back wh-w-when it-it-it's done, and you'll b-be ready.”

Sam hesitated, fingering the small envelope with a complicated feeling in his chest he couldn't quite identify. April watched, her eyes darting back and forth between Sam's hands and his face. Frowning at last, Sam set the envelope on the table between the two of them, as if daring her to take away from him.

“This is,” he started, then paused, brushing his long bangs from his eyes and tucking it behind his ears as best he could, “it's, ah...I-I don't know i-i-if you, if you'll want these, but...I know you're worried a-about it, and...” Tapping the envelope with the tip of his index finger, Sam briefly felt a surge of hunger and loss emanating from within the little package. “If y-you don't want t-t-to keep it, chew these. All of them. Th-that should take care of it.”

April stared at the little yellow packet, her face a mortified mixture of fear and disbelief. After several silent minutes of deliberation, her hand tentatively moved forward, and she slid the envelope off of the table and closed her hand around it protectively. Sam closed his eyes and swallowed hard, hoping she'd have the strength to even consider using them. He never did.

*~*

That night, Sam came home to find a sleeping Dean tangled haphazardly in the rough motel sheets, his legs twisted up in the thick comforter. Putting off a shower for the time being, Sam slipped into bed beside him, resting his head on the opposite pillow and lying on his side, watching his brother carefully. Dean's slack face betrayed nothing, peaceful in sleep, and yet his lazy, space-eating sprawl screamed Dean in every sense of the word. Curled up on the far edge, Sam scooted over slowly rested his head on Dean's pillow, just below his face, and wrapped his arms around Dean, pulling him closer. He was satisfied then, just to lay and bask in the unique, chaotic yet achingly familiar energy that his brother emitted, but a small nudge against his stomach made him jump in surprise.

Looking down, Sam felt his breath halt in his lungs, the skin under Dean's thin white undershirt shifting slightly, and with a cold, shriveled feeling not unlike horror he reached down and lifted the edge of the fabric and stared at the spot where he'd seen the movement. Dean's bronzed skin was pulled thin across his belly, and before long Sam spotted another rustling beneath the surface, a shape pressing up from the other side that eerily resembled a foot, too small to belong to anything real.

Remembering to breath, Sam exhaled sharply, a stinging pain in his eyes that brought his hand up to his face only to come away wet, damp with unnoticed tears that sprung from a well tainted with emotions that couldn't exist in the same moment. Not until now, anyway.

Risking his sanity and his brother's sleeping state, he put his hand across the expanse of skin and waited, applying gentle pressure with his fingers. Nothing happened at first, but after about a minute of patience Sam felt an answering motion: a kick, aimed right at the center of his palm and strong enough to bounce right off. Sam let go then, overwhelmed, and pulled Dean close, so tight he thought he might wake him up, but Dean slept hard, his breath falling over the skin of Sam's neck, raising goosebumps along the way.

Sam couldn't bring himself to stop crying, and he wasn't exactly sure why. Whether it was the aching joy he felt at this new, blossoming energy, or the crushing loss he already felt at knowing he'd never be there to see it come into full bloom, neither one mattered. He simply cried, for both reasons, and above all clung tightly to his brother and was thankful for him, all of him.

*~*

 

Sam heard the distinct sound of Dean cursing over the noise of his chopping, and he paused for a moment, stilling his knife and waiting.

“Ow...Fuck!” came the muffled cry from the hallway, dulled by the bathroom door.

“...Dean?”

Dean didn't answer, and Sam abandoned his preparations and moved into the hallway, creeping closer to the door but stopping just shy. He heard the sound of air rushing past clenched teeth, hissing in pain, and tapped anxiously on the door.

“Fuck off!”

Exhaling through his nose, Sam took a nervous step backwards towards his lunch, hesitated, and remained where he was.

“You're still there. I said to fuck off!” The warning in his tone quickly ascended into a threat, and Sam's shoulder's strung up tighter.

“Um,” he began, leaning back against the wall next to the door frame, “I-I-I just-”

The door rattled suddenly right down to the hinges, thudding like something heavy had been thrown against it. “I swear to god, Sammy...” Sam waited patiently for Dean to finish, but the rest of the threat never came. Finally, the lock slid on the other side of the door, metal grinding against wood, and the bathroom door cracked open an inch, the artificial yellow light pouring out through the gap. Dean stuck his eye in the crack and surveyed Sam. “...Something's, uh...something hurts. Like, around here,” he waved, gesturing at his upper chest. “There's a...thing.”

Sam caught the briefest snatch of skin with his eyes, the dip of Dean's shoulder curving into collarbone, and turned to look at the opposite wall. “Like what?” he asked, trying to seem nonchalant.

“Like a, like a hard bump or something.”

“What?” Immediately turning to look, Sam came face to face with the bathroom door slamming in his face. “Dean!” He tried the lock but Dean was too fast, and he settled for leaning up against the door, resting his ear on the wood.

“Oh, my god, you fucking flip out over every little thing! Never mind,” Dean muttered, the sound hollow with the echo across the tile.

“I won't l-lo-l-look, I p-promise, all right? Just,” he argued, exhaling a shaky breath, “Open the door.”

Muttering under his breath, Dean opened the door just a hair, plenty of room for his hateful gaze to rest on Sam's face, but little else. “Turn around.”

Immediately Sam went back to his former position, his back to Dean, and he heard the door creaking as it opened just a little more, his shadow becoming more defined on the wall before him.

“W-where is it exactly?”

“On the side, like, under my arm.”

“Oh.” Sam could guess pretty well at what it might be, but he really didn't want to. But Dean stood silently, waiting for Sam to help him, and Sam couldn't ignore him. “A-a-are, are you still binding?”

One second, two, four and five and then Dean replied like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Yeah.”

“Dean, maybe y-y-yo-you, you should w-wait awhile.”

“What.” it wasn't a question, it was a blatant refusal.

“I-I mean, it's...probably not a-a-a g- a good idea. Just for now,” he reassured, sensing the futility in his words but driving on anyway.

Dean's breath came in low, easy strokes, the only indication that Sam wasn't the only person in the hallway. Then the inevitable slamming of the door came, as Sam had expected, and pushing off the wall he made his way back to the little kitchenette. Strawberries first, then spinach, followed by a multitude of powders and tinctures, all them layered precisely in the blender until nothing at all was left to chance.

*~*

“...Dean?” Sam tried again, nudging him on the shoulder to rouse him. “C-come on, man,” he teased, smiling worriedly as he brushed back the outgrown, honey strewn bangs from Dean's sweat-shining face, still burrowed under the comforter at four in the afternoon. Sam had only been at the shop a few hours, but Dean had been in bed when he'd left, and slept beside him all night.

“Hm-mm,” Dean hummed, a clear “no” in his whisper-quiet response. Without opening his eyes he dug deeper into the mattress, trying to bury his head beneath a pillow. “Feel sick,” he muttered, rubbing his face on a blanket sleepily.

“Sick?” Sam repeated, dipping his hand below the surface of the pool of sheets to feel more firmly against Dean's forehead. “Dean, you...you're kind of h-h-hot.”

“Oh, Sam,” Dean murmured, chortling weakly under his breath, “I know you think so.” Dissolving into a fit of low-throated chuckling, he shuffled a bit under his makeshift molehill.

Sam frowned, worry replacing confusion within moments. Dean was anything but prone to giggling. “H-h-ha-have you eaten?”

The sound that arose from the pile was a confirmed negative. “I did chuke a lot, though,” he added. “No food. Don't want any.”

“Okay.” Taking a precarious seat at the edge of the mattress, Sam pulled back a little at the end of the sheets, unearthing a portion of his brother's face. “Dean...something's h-happening. I-I-I think it's-”

“Don't, okay?” Dean asked, his clear jade eyes focusing on Sam's intently. “I know.”

“The-the fever...it's n-not good.”

“Fix it, then. I'm not leaving.” Defiant, Dean pursed his lips flat, effectively ending the conversation.

Sam grabbed Dean's hand then, gripping it tighter than he should have and causing Dean to wince, but he didn't pull away like Sam thought he might. “I'm sorry,” he repeated. “Dean, I-I...” Here he stopped, knowing that he couldn't be that person anymore. He couldn't come to Dean and say he was scared, not now. It was his turn to fix things, even if it was just this once. “I'm gonna...I-I'm gonna get something. J-j-just stay here, okay?”

Dashing over to the bag he'd left by the front door, Sam dug through the contents, clanking old glass together and rummaging around, grabbing a handful of different containers and clamping down hard on his instinctive panic. Even with the guesswork he'd had to do about the dates, this was still too early. Not fatally so, but...he'd hoped for longer.

Administering drops under his brother's tongue, Sam laid down on the bed beside Dean, smoothing a hand across his hair, his neck, his arms, anywhere Dean would let him, the constant motion under his fingertips soothing him into a peaceful state. His hands caressed little spikes and swirls of vibrational movement only he could feel, tracking the flow throughout Dean's body. It was utterly fascinating, the distinct and completely foreign sensation beneath his palms as his entire being unified towards an as yet unmanifested goal.

“E-everything's moving,” he said, his hands on either side of Dean's hips, running softly down his sides. “I-I-It, it feels so weird,” he admitted, smiling oddly. The expression felt strange, as though is face was unsure of how to convey the experience.

Dean raised an eyebrow, still petulant in his altered state. “You're fucking weird.” He got about halfway through an eyeroll when his irises froze mid-motion and stuck fast to the ceiling, widening. “What the fuck-”

“Oh.” Sam gingerly pulled his hands from Dean's skin, hovering them just above his rounded abdomen. Dull waves of intense pressure rose, effortlessly lifting and pressing at Sam's hand like the reverse end of a magnet, invisibly repelling his fingers. “D-d-don't get nervous. It feels tight? Li-l-like a, a muscle cramp?”

Giving no indication of pain other than an irritated frown, Dean nodded his head, turning to lay fully on his side. Holding his breath, he waited and then let out a rush of air as the feeling passed, visibly relaxing. “Fuck that,” he stated casually, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

The afternoon gave way to evening, sunlight inching slowly across the worn carpet, and the movement of time felt strange, out of sync with the rest of the world outside the motel room. If all the Earth was hurdling past their door, Sam and Dean seemed to move in slow motion, disconnected, submerged in the twilight of life and death.

A tiny droplet of sweat crossed the lonely expanse of Dean's bare thigh, his knees digging into the carpet and his forehead pressed into his folded arms crossed on top of the mattress. T shirt soaked with sweat, he bared his teeth in a feral mask of pain, little sound escaping from his glistening teeth. Sam knew his brother's weariness, could feel it down in his bones and the stiff, sore muscles wrapped around. It was nearly 2 am, the dim light from the bedside lamp the only illumination in the room.

“Fuck,” Dean moaned, succinct and low, his voice dragging through dry dirt. “Okay, something's- something's happening,” he ground out breathlessly. He started to say something more but the sound was cut off, a strangled cry ending deep in his throat. His head fell forward again, resting in silence a few more moments before he found the strength to continue. “I- I gotta push. I gotta-”

“No, no, don't.” Putting his hand on the back of Dean's neck, he applied gentle pressure until his head lay on the mattress, his eyes open and fixated on Sam's tense expression.

“Dude, I-” Grimacing slightly, Dean paused before continuing. “I can't. I have to, it's-”

“Dean, l-listen,” Sam interrupted, his voice earnest. “Don't push. Lo-l-l-look, look at me. Look, Dean.” Dean's eyes, which had begun tracking wildly around the room in the emergence of panic, settled back down on Sam's eyes. “Don't push. J-j-just breath, look at m-me. If you push...you might get hurt.”

The sharp intake of air Dean took signaled another downward wave of contractions, but his eyes fixated firmly on Sam's, and Sam smiled despite his frayed nerves. “That's it,” he said, his hand smoothing down the hairs on Dean's head. “See...it happens w-w-whether y-you, you push or not...” Waiting until the rush was beginning to ebb, Sam withdrew and stepped over to the stove, putting on a pot of water. He returned just in time for Dean to raise his head and, with a shell-shocked face, ball his hands into fists and stare desperately at his brother.

“Okay, okay,” he breathed out quickly, his focus on Sam's face fading in and out. With a trembling jaw and a shiver running up and down his entire form, Dean strung himself taut as wire, vibrating with a tune even Sam couldn't reach.

“Shhh...” whispered Sam, grabbing a shabby green towel from the pile on the bed, setting it down at his knees. More to himself than to his brother, who was almost completely incoherent, he whispered, “okay...don't get m-m-mad,” as he reach between Dean's spread knees to gingerly check his progress. His fingers tripped over a slick expanse, and with a gasp he let go and grabbed the towel. “Dean, y-y-you-'re done, man.” Futilely choking back a shrill laugh that broke free anyway, he placed a hand on the small of Dean's back and pressed hard. “This is it.” He didn't know if Dean could still hear him, but it brought him relief just to hear the words leaving his lips.

Like a petal in a swift breeze the baby broke free, Sam's outstretched arms ready with the fresh towel. Dean collapsed not more than a second later, his head turned to watch in disbelief as Sam awkwardly set it down on the floor a mere foot from Dean's sprawled legs. Immediately the tiny thing started to change color from a bruise blue to red, tossing it's limbs and trembling, a terrible squalling erupting from it's mouth.

“...Holy shit,” Dean heaved out, his teeth still chattering wildly, staring at the baby, his face reflecting nausea. “It's...it's fucking real.” His voice on the desperate edge of sanity, his eyes rolled up behind his eyelids and he slid back against the mattress, the fleshy cord stretching between the two of them and disappearing between his thighs.

Sam stared at the baby. He'd known it would be a girl ever since Dean had told him, but it hadn't prepared him for the overwhelming horror that enveloped him when he laid eyes on the baby for the first time. Sucking in a huge lungful of air, he waited, watching the sticky towel begin to cling to it's skin, reality cutting sharply into his head a relief of this moment.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, to the baby, to himself, to his brother.

Only then did he notice the pool of blood forming on the carpet between his brother's legs. Abandoning the infant, Sam crawled over to where Dean lay, his upper body resting against the side of the bed. Shaking his shoulders, gently at first and then more and more frantically, Sam jostled and shook him, fear cresting like a crashing wave in his veins. “Come on...”

Dean jumped once, twice, and then his eyelids began to flutter, thick black lashes shuttering like dragonfly wings, hovering in the same place. Brow furrowed in confusion (and pain, Sam guessed), he moaned and tilted his head, eyes slitting upwards. “Dizzy,” he mumbled, “Wha-...what happened?” he asked groggily, as if waking from a disorienting dream. “Is it...is it okay?” His voice was dubious, clouded with conflict.

“Yeah, Dean,” he said, smiling, his eyes burning and blurring with tears. “Y-y-you, you...you did it. You're bleeding...”

Frowning, Dean's eyes darted past his brother's, wavering towards the sound of the baby's cry. “Isn't that normal?”

Sam looked down, the carpet where Dean sat growing soggy and black. The sharp tang of iron in the air, under his nose, made his stomach twist and writhe in his gut. “Not this much.” He put his hand on Dean's stomach and massaged the muscles there with a firm hand. Dean winced but didn't fight him, his grip on reality becoming abstract. “I n-n-ne-need the placenta.”

“I'm...I'm too tired to...fuckin'...” Dean trailed off, lashes wavering open and shut, and just then Sam nearly lost his mind, the illusion of control, of responsibility shattering like a wall of glass. He could not lose Dean. But the sensation of dying was caught in the air, the pure living energy slipping away from his brother and dissipating into nothing, brushing across his own face like gossamer threads as they went to wherever they go. Dean's face was sickly white, his freckles brought to the surface like a charcoal rubbing laid across his pallid features.

“S-stop the bleeding...” Hands fumbling, Sam ran into the kitchen, the image and the smell returning to his mind of that afternoon not long ago when April came to see him. The scent that caught his attention then, laying to sleep a seedling in his mind that sprouted the moment he ran into the kitchen and threw open the cabinets, the traces of his brother's blood on his hands leaving smudges on the tile. “Where, where, where...” As his heart center clamped down in despair, he remembered the very last time he'd seen what he was looking for: on the floor, scattered in a sea of glass shards and spilt liquid. Dean had destroyed the plant that he needed. “Oh,” he gasped, “oh...”

The pot of water had finally come to a boil, and steam rose in billows and curls to the ceiling. In the background, the baby cried and cried, shoving it's tiny fists at it's mouth, begging to be held and fed and loved.

“What the fuck,” he heard Dean say over the sound of the baby, and not having any business left in the kitchen he left and ran back over to Dean.

“Dean, I can't-” he said, the sound of his voice shrill and foreign to his ears, “I-I-I-it's, it's, I-I-I-I-”

“Whoa...what...” Cringing, Dean reached out a limp arm and steadied himself on Sam's shoulder. “Calm down.”

Coughing turned into sobbing, and Sam clamped down hard on Dean's stomach with his hands, resting his forehead on Dean's. Dean's face curled into a grimace and he tried to swat at Sam's hands, hissing in annoyance. “Cut it out.”

“I n-needed those flowers,” Sam cried, fat, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. “It's no-n-no-not coming out, Dean.” The roaring of blood in his ears, the insistent cries of the infant at their feet, and the fading song of his brother's life filled his ears and his mind. He wanted to vomit, to scream, to lash out at the world, their father, at anything that had ever tried to destroy them.

“Hnnn...” Dean whined, groaning under a long, slow breath. “Yellow?”

“What?”

Scoffing at Sam in an achingly familiar patronizing tone, Dean cracked a tiny smile and opened his eyes, looking up into Sam's hovering face. “Are they yellow?”

Nodding as he wiped at his face, Sam watched Dean incredulously.

Dean motioned slightly with his head towards the table on the other side of the room, where they'd eaten countless meals together. Dean's jacket lay tossed over a chair. “In the pocket. I found them...on the ground...”

Sam was across the room before he even thought to question the ridiculousness of what Dean was suggesting. In the inner pocket Sam's fingers closed over a little mound of soft petals, long pointed snapped stems jabbing his palms.

“No,” Sam whispered, unearthing the yellow bundle from their hiding place. Without skipping a beat he tossed the handful into the boiling pot, now half empty, and pulling it from the heat.

“Sam!” Dean was struggling to sit upright, and by the time Sam got to his side he'd almost managed to pull himself up and over, scrabbling his fingers instinctively to climb onto the mattress.

“Hey, what- Dean!” Holding him in his arms, Sam let Dean rest his head on the bed like before, the contractions taking him again. This time he lay limp, keening almost silently with a breathy voice as his body worked again, weaker this time and with less urgency.

Minutes passed, the labor still fruitless, and Sam managed to get the flower steeped water into Dean, a hand under his chin as he pressed the lip of the mug to Dean's slack mouth. Dean's breathing slowed, taking longer and leaner breaths with each inhalation. It was difficult to tell if the bleeding had stopped. Dean couldn't be moved without moving the baby, and the blood soaked carpet beneath him made it difficult to gauge any difference in the flow.

“Come on, Dean,” Sam pleaded, burying his face in Dean's neck, wrapping his entire body around Dean's back. Slumped over the edge of the bed, Dean's body moved under the rhythmic contractions and the occasional shiver. “I c-ca-can't do this w-without you. Y-you're, you're right about me,” he said, brushing the bangs from Dean's face, “N-no-no one else will want m-me. “I need you t-t-o protect me. Don't go,” he whispered, arms tightening. “Don't go.”

Shuddering, shivering, his body suddenly hot as pavement and muscles twice as hard, Dean flashed white teeth as he uttered a low groan, his body finally releasing afterbirth. Without wasting a second Sam grabbed for Dean's hunting knife, placed carefully under the bed by Sam hours earlier, and sliced a clean cut right through the middle of the meat, cutting easily through the cord and sawing off a chunk of the placenta itself and ripping it free like a piece of raw flesh. He picked Dean up easily, laying him flat on his back on the bed, and without warning to his brother wrenched open his mouth and shoved the bloody mess in, sliding it between his cheek and his teeth and holding it there with two fingers. Dean's eyebrows creased but he didn't have the strength to protest, his neck failing and his head falling back limp on the pillow. Sam turned him onto his side and left him where he was, sparing just a moment to get the baby and move her to the bed.

All he could do was wait.

The baby had long since given up crying and now turned puffy, dark eyes on Sam, the ceiling, the bed, taking in her surroundings. Quiet and alert, she looked from side to side, all around, fluid drying and flaking off, turning white in her dark hair. Sam reached out and grabbed at the edge of the green towel, pulling it closer. He wrapped the edges around and around until she was just a tiny pink face peering out from the bundled cloth, and that seemed to calm her, her eyes drifting shut the moment he finished wrapping her up. Tucking her in the crook of his arm, he turned his attention back to Dean, feeling his forehead and nearly sobbing as he noticed some of the color returning to his face.

Dean slept for nearly two hours before startling awake, groggy with fear and deep set weariness, a dark set to his eyes.

“What the hell happened?” he groaned, sitting up on his elbows to gaze dazedly around the room, smacking his mouth around the taste of blood.

“Y-yo-y-you bled. A lot,” Sam added, sitting back down on the bed next to Dean. “I-I-I think you'll be o-okay now.”

Dean looked to Sam, down at the baby in his arms and then down to the sheets, averting his eyes. “So...everything's okay.”

“I think so.” Unsure, Sam hesitated before continuing. “Do you, um...” he gestured, lifting up the bundle.

It was difficult to gauge Dean's reaction. He looked everywhere but Sam's arms, swallowing hard. “Uh...no, I'm good.” Finally his eyes settled on her face, for a handful of seconds and no more, his expression placid, nothing at all beneath the surface. “You should probably name her at least. So they have something to put on the paperwork.”

Sam looked to Dean, at the tiny yellow blossoms stripped of life and floating in the bottom his cup on the floor beside the bed, and back down to the infant in his hands. “Agrimony,” he said aloud, the sound rolling off the tip of his tongue like wildfire in the air, awake, alive.

Dean scoffed, exhausted. “Gee, great. Why not Broomhilda?”

Sam laughed at that, really laughed for the first time in a long time, short spurts and bursts of fear dislodging from his heart.

Sitting upright, Dean stretched his arms and tentatively moved on the mattress. “Okay,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Throw me some pants.”

“Dean,” Sam started, his eyebrows rising high. “You almost died. W-we can t-t-take one more night.”

The look his brother returned ripped the last of his protest from his throat, silencing Sam immediately. “Sammy,” he mused, easing his legs into the jeans Sam brought him, “you knew that this was just a temporary thing.”

“I-I know, Dean, but I-...I want to say g-g-go-goodbye to...everyone.”

“So what, you wanna stay here now? Fine,” he snapped, buttoning his jeans and walking cautiously across the room, tossing things into bags indiscriminately. “I hope you two have fun. I'm outta here.”

“No, Dean, p-please.” Still fresh from the shock of seeing Dean's life spilling out on the carpet, the threat of losing him again kicked his adrenals hard, jolting him into motion. Laying the baby down on the bed between duffel bags, he grabbed Dean by the shoulders and hugged him close. Dean allowed it, but didn't return the embrace. “I'll go...I-I-I'm sorry.”

Sitting down next to the bag he was currently packing, Dean crammed a wad of dirty boxers between a pile of shirts. “I didn't want to do this, but...we didn't really have a choice. It's over, Sammy. And these people...well, I'm willing to bet they won't miss you once you're gone.”

“I...I-I don't know.” Sam fidgeted, feeling exposed. “Th-th-there's some r-really nice people here. I think-”

“You think they were nice because they liked you, or because you were helping them out?” When Sam only looked helplessly back, Dean strode on, rallying his tired war cry once more. “Did you tell them about us? Did what's-her face...Tamara? Did Tamara know you were fucking your brother? Oh, wait,” he continued, grinning contentedly, “did Tamara know you got your own brother knocked up?”

Sam felt his insides churning, shaking his head with unseeing eyes. The baby coughed, a tiny reminder that everything Dean was asking him was perfectly admissible. True.

“N-n-no, but-”

“Why didn't you tell anyone?”

“Be-because...” Vaguely he felt something preparing to snap in his mind, and he moved towards the bed and knelt before his brother, looking for protection. “Th-they wouldn't...y-you're, you're right, Dean.”

Gripping Sam by the shoulders, Dean pulled him closer, leaning in to kiss him on the mouth. Not affectionately but madly, passion overriding reason. Sam knew he was still dizzy, still healing from the long labor and the loss of precious life. “You can't abandon me, Sam.”

“I won't,” Sam promised earnestly, feeling a fervor like that of ecstatic worship.

“We can't let Dad down.”

“No.” Sam shook his head.

“Okay,” said Dean, a weary smile on his mouth, and he kissed Sam again, taking his time and leading Sam, chasing his tongue and grinning against his brother's lips. “Pack it up, little brother. We'll go somewhere fun. Promise.”

*~*

At five thirty in the morning, the emergency room was barren, a few stragglers sitting bundled up in the corner seats, all of them in various states of disarray. Dean was waiting in the car, dozing in the backseat. Nervously, Sam crept up to the counter and smiled hopefully at the heavyset woman eying him and the baby from behind the glass.

“Can I help you?” she asked, clearly in no hurry to help anyone.

Wavering, Sam opened his mouth, trying to keep his voice down. “I-I-I...I need to, t-to, uh...” he motioned towards the baby, still sleeping peacefully in her forest green cocoon.

“Is the baby sick?”

“N-no, I...” Looking between the woman impatiently expecting an answer and the uninterested people in the far corner of the room, Sam leaned in a bit closer to the glass window. “We can't keep her,” he whispered.

“Oh. Oh...” Understanding washing over the woman, she sifted through different stacks until she found the correct paper and clipped it to a board and handed it to him. With a decidedly kinder tone, she pointed him to a seat. “Fill this out as much as you can and someone will come and get her. You're gonna get, um...” Tapping her long, curved acrylic nail on the counter, she looked over a few papers. “You'll get a matching bracelet. If you need to come back for any reason, just bring the bracelet with you.”

The paperwork was short, and there wasn't much he could say. It was almost entirely questions about family health history, none of which Sam knew besides his own colorful health record. Marking what he could, he moved to the top of the sheet and printed her name clearly, declaring her a Winchester whether she wanted it or not. Setting the clipboard aside, he sat her up on his knees, resting his feet on the edge of the chair, and waited.

“I'm sorry.”

She didn't respond, didn't wake up to the sound of his voice. Instead, she breathed in and out, making little wheezing sounds and pursing her lips, sleepily sucking on nothing.

He spent his last five minutes with her memorizing her tiny features, so soft and small like babies are, but worlds apart from any other baby Sam had ever seen.

Sam didn't cry until he was sitting in the front seat of the Impala. Fingering the hospital bracelet they'd handed him, Sam cried hard, chest wracking sobs, the events of the last couple of months compounding against the last 12 hours and crushing him on both sides like a blow to the head.

“What's that?” asked Dean, mere inches from his ear, and Sam jumped, clenching his hand around the bracelet. “Did they give you that?”

Sam didn't respond, tracing a fingertip over the bracelet, running his hand over the letters.

“Give it to me.”

“W-what? Why?” Before Sam could turn to look Dean in the face the plastic was snatched from his hand, his brother already leaning forward and rolling down the passenger side window. Leaning over the backseat with a face full of grim determination, Dean reached into his pocket and flipped the lid on his lighter, a metallic clank preceding the rising fire.

“Dean, stop it!” Sam moved to take back the bracelet but it was already beginning to melt, the orange glow consuming the plastic and blackening the edges, the shape flexing and drooping until it was nothing more than a blackened shadow. It was, to Sam, like watching the entire foundation he had unintentionally laid down in the town of Sunset going up in flames.

Staring at the place where the bracelet had been in disbelief, Sam ached down to his bones, his tears flowing freely. “Dean...I wan-w-wanted...I-I-I-”

“Goddammit, Sam!” Dean's furious voice exploded from the darkness of the backseat. “You don't think I've thought about this every fucking night for the last few months? Sammy, listen...” He paused, holding in a long breath, and continued in a kinder, tightly strung tone. “You and I...this is it for us. It's too late...this kid's got a fucking chance at a normal life. We can't give it to her. Do you really want her to end up like us?”

Sam cried harder. He'd wanted to tell her that, but it didn't seem fair. It wasn't apology enough.

“Sammy,” Dean moaned, rustling around in the backseat. “We'll go to California, right? Come on...” He was still worn threadbare, his voice cracking and peeling in places.“They put tofu on sticks and call them corn dogs. You'll love it.”

“...Okay,” Sam agreed. He could do that. He could do whatever it took to make things right again.

“We're gonna be heroes. Again and again. Remember? Forever...like Dad says.”

“Yeah...”

It was at least twenty more minutes before Sam could start the engine, the Impala rumbling confidently to life beneath him. California, he thought, backing out of the parking lot. California.

 

End.


End file.
